UC-NRLF 


I.I  1  '>N  ANY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

i 


Accessions  A'o. 


i^        .  i8v 

Vjss  M>. 


ON    A    MULE    ON    THE    NEVADA    TRAIL    IN    THE 
YOSEMITE   VALLEY,    1893. 


KLIZABBTH    PORTER   C1OULD. 


O  patient  little  creature, 

Would  that  thou  too  could' st  see 
This  grandeur  and  this  glory, 

Now  so  revealed  to  me ; 

The  Merced  River  dancing, 

In  wild,  perpetual  glee, 
While  rugged  mountains  guard  it 

In  silent  majesty; 

The  glorious  Falls  of  Vernal, 

Nevada's  beauteous  veil  — 
O  faithful  mule,  is't  possible 

Thou  can'st  see  but  the  trail? 

Can'st  not  uplift  thy  being 

To  God  in  conscious  praise, 
And  know  the  untold  rapture 

Of  catching  heaven's  rays  ? 

Yet  'tis  through  thy  devotion 

I  reach  Yosemite's  heart, 
And  feel  the  sweet  baptism 

Her  wondrous  Falls  impart. 

For  all  thy  faithful  service, 

Perhaps  some  day  thou'lt  climb 

A  trail  of  heavenly  beauty 
Beyond  the  trails  of  time. 

Till  then  I  can  but  wonder, 

If  heaven  itself  will  show 
A  trail  of  wilder  grandeur 

Than  this,  earth  does  bestow. 

[The  Christian  Advocate. 


TJIIITBRSITT 


r 

^J4 


STRAY  PEBBLES 


FROM   THE 


SHORES  OF  THOUGHT 


BY 


ELIZABETH    PORTER  GOULD 


BOSTON 

PRESS  OF  T.  O.  METCALF  &  Co 

1892 


',1  •      "• 


COPYRIGHT    1892 

DY 
ELIZABETH    PORTER    GOULD 


CONTENTS. 


s    <yiWASL4s , 

POEMS  OF  NATURE : 

PAGE 

To  Walt  Whitman 1 1 

To  Summer  Hours  .  .  .  .  .12 
A  True  Vacation  .  .  .  .  -13 
A  Question  .  .  .  .  .  -14 

To  a  Butterfly 16 

In  a  Hammock  ......     18 

O  rare,  sweet  summer  day          .         .         .20 
An  Old  Man's  Reverie        .         .         .         .22 

On  Jefferson  Hill        .         .         .         .         .26 

On  Sugar  Hill 28 

At  "  Fairfield's,"  Wenham          .         .         .29 
Blossom-time      .         .         .         .         .         -31 

The  Primrose     ......     33 

Joy,  all  Joy          ......     35 

Among  the  Pines 37 

Conscious  or  Unconscious          .         .         -39 


iv  CONTENTS. 

F    LOVE: 


ve's  How  and  Why        .         .         .         -43 
Love's  Guerdon         .         .         .         .         -44 

A  Birthday  Greeting  .         .         .         .         -45 

Three  Kisses      ......     48 

If  I  were  only  sure     .....     50 

Absence     .......     52 

A  Love  Song      ......     53 

In  Her  Garden  .         .....     55 

Love's  Wish       ......     56 

Is  there  anything  purer      .         .         .         .     58 

Longing      .......     60 

Young  Love's  Message       .         .         .         .61 

A  Diary's  Secret         .         .         .         .         -63 

A  Monologue     ......     65 

A  Priceless  Gift          .....     66 

The  Ocean's  Moan     .         .         .         .         -67 

Love's  Flower    ......     70 

Renunciation      ......     71 

Love  Discrowned        .         .         .         .         -74 

A  Widow's  Heart  Cry        .         .         .         .76 

Together    .......     78 

Shadowed  Circles  .     80 


CONTENTS,  v 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  : 

^Hxy  'fc(TY~  /  PAGE 

A  Song  of  Success     .         .         .         .         -85 

The  Under  World 87 

She  Knows         .         .         .  .         .88 

At  Pittsford,  Vermont        .         .         .         .90 

Childhood's  Days       .         .         .         .         .92 

An  Answer          .         .         .         .         .         -94 

Where,  What,  Whence      .         .         .         .96 

Heroes        .......     98 

A  Magdalen's  Easter  Cry  .         .         .         .100 

For  the  Anniversary  of  Mrs.  Browning's 

Death          ......  103 

Robert  Browning        .         .         .         .         .105 

To  Neptune,  in  behalf  of  S.  C.  G.      .         .107 
To  the  Pansies  growing  on  the  grave  of 

A.  S.  D 109 

A  Broken  Heart         .         .         .         .         .in 

My  Release •  113 

The  god  of  music       .         .         .         .         -115 
To  Wilhelm  Gericke  .         .         .         .118 

For  E.  T.  F. 

1.  —  After  the  birth  of  her  son     .         .119 

2.  —  Upon  the  death  of  her  son    .         .   121 


vi  CONTENTS. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  :  —  Continued. 

PA(»E 

To  C.  H.  F 123 

An  Anniversary  Poem        .         .         .         .126 

A  Comfort 1 28 

An  Anniversary  .  .  .  .  .129 
To  Miss  Elizabeth  P.  Peabody  .  .131 

At  Life's  Setting  .  .  .  .  .  133 
Grandma  Waiting  .  .  .  .  -136 
Does  it  Pay  .  .  .  .  .  -144 

Auxilium  ab  Alto 145 

Limitations 147 

The  Muse  of  History          .         .         .         .148 
An  Impromptu  to  G.  H.  T.        .         .         .   151 
To  Mrs.  Partington    .         .         .         .         .   1 53 
Lines  for  the  Seventieth  Birthday  Anni 
versary  of  Walt  Whitman  .         .         .   i  c6 

0*^    £c<%'7liW<*»v^,. 
SONNJETS:    /  '    >;/„ 

gi^  t/&c  r"4f4*  . 

The  Known  God        .         .         .         .         .161 

To  Phillips  Brooks 163 

At  the  "  Porter  Manse  "  .  .  .  .165 
Our  Lady  of  the  Manse  .  .  .  .167 

To  B.  P.  Shillaber 169 

To  Our  Mary      .         .         .         .         .         .   171 


CONTENTS.  vii 

SONNETS  :  —  Continued. 

P  AGK 

A  Birthday  Remembrance  .         .         .   173 

Josef  Hofmann  .... 

After  the  Denial 177 

*       Gethsemane 179 

On  Lake  Memphremagog  .         .         .181 

Luke  23:  24 183 

To  Members  of  my  Home  Club         .         .185 

FOR    MY    LITTLE    NEPHEWS    AND    NIECES  : 

Mamma's  Lullaby       .         .         .         .         .189 

Warren's  Song 190 

Baby  Mildred 192 

Rosamond  and  Mildred      .         .         .         .    194 

'Chilla 196 

Childish  Fancies 197 

What  little  Bertram  did     .         .         .         .199 

"  Dear  little  Mac  " 202 

Willard  and  Florence  on  Mt.  Wachusett  .  207 

A  little  Brazilian 210 

The  little  doubter       .         .         .         .         -213 

Our  Kitty's  Trick 217 

A  Message          .    ^^Sff^^S^^      •  220 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


TO   WALT   WHITMAN. 


"  I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul." 

And  what  do  I  feel  ? 
An   influx  of  life  from  the  great  central 

power 

That  generates    beauty  from    seedling   to 
flower. 

"I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul." 

And  what  do  I  hear  ? 
Original  harmonies  piercing  the  din 
Of  measureless  tragedy,  sorrow,  and  sin. 

"I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul." 

And  what  do  I  see  ? 

The  temple  of  God  in  the  perfected  man 
Revealing  the  wisdom  and  end  of  earth's 
plan. 

August,  1891. 

II 


TO    SUMMER    HOURS. 

DAY. 

Trip  lightly,  joyous  hours, 
While  Day  her  heart  reveals. 
Such  wealth  from  secret  bowers 
King  Time  himself  ne'er  steals. 
O  joy,  King  Time  ne'er  steals  ! 

NIGHT. 

Breathe  gently,  tireless  hours, 
While  Night  in  beauty  sleeps. 
Hold  back  e'en  softest  showers,- 
Enough  that  mortal  weeps. 
Ah  me,  that  my  heart  weeps  ! 


12 


A    TRUE   VACATION. 

IN    A    HAMMOCK. 

"  Cradled  thus  and  wind  caressed," 

Under  the  trees, 

(Oh  what  ease.) 
Nature  full  of  joyous  greeting ; 
Dancing,  singing,  naught  secreting, 
Ever  glorious  thoughts  repeating  — 

Pause,  O  Time, 

I'm  satisfied ! 

Now  all  life 

Is  glorified  ! 

Porter  Manse,  Wenham,  Mass. 


'3 


A    QUESTION. 

Is  life  a  farce  ? 

Tell  me,  O  breeze, 
Bearing  the  perfume  of  flowers  and  trees, 

While  gaily  decked  birds 
Pour  forth  their  gladness  in  songs  beyond 

words, 
And  cloudlets  coquette  in  the  fresh  summer 

air 
Rejoicing  in  everything  being  so  fair  — 

Is  life  a  farce  ? 

How  can  it  be,  child, 

When  Nature  at  heart 
Is  but  the  great  spirit  of  love  and  of  art 
Eternally  saying,  "  I  must  God  impart." 
14 


A    QUESTION.  15 

Is  life  a  farce  ? 

Tell  me,  O  soul, 
Struggling  to  act  out  humanity's  whole 

'Midst  Error  and  Wrong, 
And  failure  in  sight  of  true  victory's  song ; 
With  Wisdom  and  Virtue  at  times  lost  to 

view, 

And  love  for  the  many  lost  in  love  for  the 
few  — 

Ts  life  a  farce  ? 

How  can  it  be,  child, 
When  humanity's  heart 
Is  but  the  great  spirit  of  love  and  of  art 
Eternally  crying,  "  I  must  God  impart." 


TO    A    BUTTERFLY. 

O  butterfly,  now  prancing 
Through  the  air. 
So  glad  to  share 

The  freedom  of  new  living, 

Come,  tell  me  my  heart's  seeking. 
Shall  I  too  know 
After  earth's  throe 

Full  freedom  of  my  being  ? 
Shall  I.  as  you, 
Through  law  as  true, 

Know  life  of  fuller  meaning  ? 

O  happy  creature,  dancing, 
Is  time  too  short 
With  pleasure  fraught 

For  you  to  heed  my  seeking  ? 
16 


TO  A   BUTTERFLY.  17 

Ah,  well,  you've  left  me  thinking : 

If  here  on  earth 

A  second  birth 
Can  so  transform  a  being, 

Why  may  not  I 

In  worlds  on  high 
Be  changed  beyond  earth's  dreaming  ? 


IN    A    HAMMOCK. 

The  rustling  leaves  above  me, 
The  breezes  sighing  round  me, 
A  network  glimpse  of  bluest  sky 
To  meet  the  upturned  seeing  eye, 
The  greenest  lawn  beneath  me, 
Loved  flowers  and  birds  to  greet  me, 
A  well-kept  house  of  ancient  days 
To  tell  of  human  nature's  ways,— 
Oh  happy,  happy  hour  ! 

Whence  comes  all  this  to  bless  me, 
The  soft  wind  to  caress  me, 
The  life  which  does  my  strength  renew 
For  purer  visions  of  the  true  ? 
Alas  !  no  one  can  tell  me. 
18 


IN  A   HAMMOCK.  19 

But,  hush  !  let  Nature  lead  me. 
Let  even  wisest  questions  cease 
While  I  breathe  in  such  life  and  peace 
This  happy,  happy  hour. 

Porter  Manse,  Wenham,  Mass. 


O    RARE,   SWEET    SUMMER    DAY. 

"  The  day  is  placid  in  its  going, 

To  a  lingering  motion  bound, 
Like  a  river  in  its  flowing  — 
Can  there  be  a  softer  sound  ?  " 

—  Wordsworth. 

O  rare,  sweet  summer  day, 

Could'st  thou  not  longer  stay  ? 
The  soothing,  whispering  wind's  caress 

Was  bliss  to  weary  brain, 
The  songs  of  birds  had  power  to  bless 

As  in  fair  childhood's  reign. 

The  tinted  clouds  were  free  from  showers, 

The  sky  was  wondrous  clear, 
The  precious  incense  of  rare  flowers 

Made  sweet  the  atmosphere ; 


O  RARE,  SWEET  SUMMER   DAY.    21 

The  shimmering  haze  of  mid-day  hour 

Was  balm  to  restlessness, 
While  thought  of  silent  hidden  power 

Was  strength  for  helplessness  — 

O  rare,  sweet  summer  day, 

Could'st  thou  not  longer  stay  ? 

Porter  Manse. 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    REVERIE. 

Blow   breezes,    fresh    breezes,    on    Love's 

swiftest  wing, 
And  bear  her  the  message  my  heart  dares 

to  sing. 
Pause  not  on  the  highways  where  gathers 

earth's  dust, 
Nor  in  the  fair  heavens,  though  cloudlets 

say  must. 
But  blow  through  the  valleys  where  flowers 

await 
To  give  of  their   essence   ere   yielding   to 

fate  ; 
Or  blow  on  the  hill  tops  where  atmospheres 

lie 
Imbued   with  the  health  which  no  money 

can  buy. 


AN  OLD   MAN'S  REVERIE.  23 

But  fail  not,  O  breezes,  on  Love's  swiftest 

wing 
To  bear  her  the  message  my  heart  dares  to 

sing. 

The  breezes,  thus  ladened,  sped  on  in  their 

flight, 

As,  cradled  in  hammock,  I  sang  in  delight, 
On  that  blest  summer  day  in  the  years  long 

ago, 
When  life  was  all  sunshine  and  youth  all 

aglow. 
The  sweets  of  the  valleys,  the  breath-  of  the 

hills 
Were  gathered  —  the  best  that  our  loved 

earth  distills  — 

As,  obedient  still  to  my  wish,  on  they  flew 
To  the  home  of  my  darling  they  now  so 

well  knew. 

* 


24  AN  OLD   MAN'S  REVERIE. 

Alas  for  the  breezes,  alas  for  my  heart, 
Alas  for  my  message,  so  full  of  love's  art ! 
If  only  the  breezes  had  followed  their  will, 
And  loitered  among  the  pure  cloudlets  so 

still, 
They'd  have  met  a  fair  soul  from  the  earth 

just  set  free 
In  search  of  their  help  for  its  message  to 

me ; 
The  message  my  darling,  with  last  fleeting 

breath, 
In  vain  tried  to  utter,  o'ertaken  by  death. 

The  breezes,  fresh  breezes,  have  blown  on 

since  then, 

With  messages  laden  again  and  again. 
As  for  me,  I  send  none.     I  wait  only  their 

will 
To  bring  me  that  message  my  lone  heart 

to  fill. 


AN  OLD   MAN'S  REVERIE.          25 

They'll  find  it  some  day  in  a  light  zephyr 

chase, 
For  nothing  is  lost  in  pure  love's  boundless 

space. 


ON    JEFFERSON   HILL. 
(BEFORE  THE  PRESIDENTIAL  RANGE.) 

The   sovereign   mountains   bask  in  sunset 

rays, 

The  valleys  rest  in  peace ; 
The  lingering  clouds  melt  into  twilight  haze. 

The  birds  their  warbling  cease ; 
The   villagers'    hour  of   welcome   sleep   is 

near, 

The  cattle  wander  home, 
While  wrapped  in  summer-scented  atmos 
phere, 

Calm  evening  comes  to  roam 
With  gentle  pace 
Through  star-lit  space, 
26 


ON  JEFFERSON  HILL.  27 

Till  moon-kissed  Night  holds  all  in  her 
embrace, 

And  Morning  waits  to  show  her  dawn- 
flushed  face. 


ON    SUGAR    HILL. 

TO    F.   B.   F. 

The  lovely  valleys  nestling  in  the  arms 

Of  glorious  mountain  peaks  ; 
The  purple  tint  of  sunset  hour,  and  charms 

The  evening  hour  bespeaks  ; 
The  monarch  peak  kissed  by  the  rising  sun, 

While  clouds  keep  guard  below ; 
Grand,  restful  views,  with  foliage  autumn- 
won, 

And  Northern  lights  rare  glow, — 
Will  e'er  recall, 
In  memory's  hall, 
The  happy  days  when  on  fair  "  Look-OfFs  " 

height, 

Sweet  friendship  cast  her  hues  of  golden 
light. 

Hotel  Look-Off,  September,  189 /. 
28 


AT    FAIRFIELDS*,    WENHAM. 

June,  1890. 

Buttercups  and  daisies, 

Clover  red  and  white, 
Ferns  and  crown-topped  grasses 

Waving  with  delight, 
Dainty  locust-blossoms, 

All  that  glad  June  yields, 
Welcome  me  with  gladness 

To  dearly-loved  "  Fairnelds." 
But  where's  my  happy  collie  dog, 
My  Rosa  ? 

The  orioles  sing  greeting, 
The  butterflies  come  near, 


Fairfields  "  is  but  another  name  for  "  Porter  Manse." 
29 


30          AT  FAIRFIELDS,   WEN  HAM. 

The  hens  cease  not  their  cackling, 

The  horses  neigh  "  I'm  here," 
The  cows  nod  "  I  have  missed  you," 

The  pigs'  eyes  even  shine, 
And  from  the  red-house  hearth-stone 

Comes  pet  cat  Valentine. 

But  where's  my  happy  collie  dog, 

My  Rosa  ? 

I  miss  her  joyful  greeting, 

Her  handsome,  high-bred  face, 

Her  vigorous,  playful  action 
In  many  a  fair  field  chase. 

Not  even  lively  Sancho 
Can  fill  for  me  her  place. 

O  Rosa,  happy  Rosa, 

Gone  where  the  good  dogs  go, 
Dost  find  such  fields  as  "Fairfields," 

More  love  than  we  could  show  ? 


-BLOSSOM-TIME. 

Blossoms  floating  through  the  air, 
Bearing  perfumes  rich  and  rare, 
Free  from  trouble,  toil,  and  care. 
Would  I  were  a  blossom  ! 

Robins  singing  in  the  trees, 
Feeling  every  velvet  breeze, 
Free  from  knowledge  that  bereaves. 
Would  I  were  a  robin  ! 

Violets  peaceful  in  the  vale, 
Telling  each  its  happy  tale, 
Free  from  worldly  noise  and  sale. 
Would  I  were  a  violet ! 

Blessed  day  of  needed  wealth, 
Full  of  Nature's  perfect  health, 
Fill  me  with  thy  power. 

3r 


32  BL  OSSOM-  TIME. 

Then  like  blossoms  I  shall  be, 

Wafting  only  purity, 
Or  like  robins,  singing  free 
'Midst  the  deepening  mystery, 
Or  like  violets,  caring  naught 
Only  to  reflect  God's  thought." 

Porter  Manse. 


THE    PRIMROSE. 

Who  tells  you,  sweet  primrose,  'tis  time  to 

wake  up 

After  dreaming  all  day  ? 
Who  changes  so  quickly  your  sombre  green 

dress 

To  the  yellow  one  gay, 
And  makes  you  the  pet  of   the  twilight's 

caress, 

And  of  poet's  sweet  lay  ? 
Who  does,  primrose,  pray  ? 

The  primrose,  secure  on  his  emerald  throne, 
Looked  up  quickly  to  say, 

"  A  dear  lovely  fairy  glides  down  from  his 

throne 
In  the  sun's  golden  ray, 

33 


34  THE   PRIMROSE. 

And  with  a  sweet  kiss  opens  wide  all  our 

eyes, 

Saying,  *  Now  is  your  day.' 
And  lo  !  when  he's  gone  we  are  filled  with 

surprise 

At  our  wondrous  array. 
So  fresh  and  so  gay. 

Do  tell  us  the  name  of  this  fairy,  I  pray, 
Who   gives   of  his   beauty,   and  then  hies 

away 

Without  thanks,  without  pay. 
Does  he  linger  your  way  ?  " 


JOY,    ALL   JOY. 

Lying  on  the  new-mown  hay,  in  a  sightly 

field, 

On  a  summer  day, 
With  no  care  to  weigh, 
Or  a  bitter  thought  to  stay  all  that  sense 

might  yield  — 
What  a  joy  to  have  alway ! 

Sky  as  blue  as  blue  can  be,  perfect  green 

all  round, 

Birdlings  on  the  wing 
Ere  they  pause  to  sing 
On  the  top  of  bush  or  tree,  or  on  sweet 

hay-mound  — 
Restful  joy  in  everything ! 
35 


36  JOY,   ALL  JOY. 

Butterflies  just  come  to  light,  proud  of  free 
dom's  hour, 
Cows  in  pastures  near, 
Wondering  why  I'm  here, 
Chipmunks  now  and  then  in  sight,  bees  in 

clover-flower  — 
Added  joy  when  these  appear  ! 

Happy  children  far  and  near  climbing  loads 

of  hay, 

Running  here  and  there. 
Farmer's  work  to  share, 
Skipping,  shouting  loud  and  clear,  full  of 

daring  play  — 
Children's  joy !     Joy  everywhere ! 


AMONG    THE    PINES. 

Far  up  in  air  the  pines  are  murmuring 
Love  songs  sweet  and  low, 
With  a  rhythmic  flow, 

Worthy  of  the  glad  sun's  gli 


low. 


The  airy  clouds  are  o'er  them  bending, 
Captured  by  the  sound 
Of  such  pleasure  found 
In  a  playful  daily  round. 

The  birds  pause  in  their  flight  to  listen, 
Wondering  all  the  while 
How  the  trees  can  smile 
Rooted  so  to  earthly  guile. 

37 


38  AMONG    THE   PINES. 

The  hush  of  summer  noon  enwraps  them 
Perfumed  from  below 
By  the  flowers  that  show 
They,  too,  murmuring  love  songs  know, 

All  nature  finds  a  joy  in  loving  — 
Oh,  that  I  could  hear 
Love  songs  once  so  dear 
Death  has  hushed  forever  here  ! 

Intervale  Woods,  Arortk  Conway. 


CONSCIOUS    OR    UNCONSCIOUS? 

The  earthquake's  shock,  the  thunder's  roar, 

The  lightning's  vivid  chain, 
The  ocean's  strength,  the  deluge's  pour, 

The  wildest  hurricane, 

Are  moods  that  Nature  loves  to  show 

To  man  who  boasts  his  birth 
From  conscious  force  she  could  not  know 

Because  denied  soul-worth. 

But  is  it  true  she  does  not  share 

A  knowledge  in  God's  plan  ? 
Must  not  she  His  own  secret  bear 

To  so  touch  soul  of  man  ? 

39 


40       CONSCIOUS   OR    UNCONSCIOUS. 

Those  who  deny  this  see  not  clear 

Into  the  heart  of  things  ; 
For  how  could  otherwise  God  here 

Reveal  His  wanderings  ? 


POEMS   OF  LOVE. 


<#XL-C/ 


LOVE'S    HOW    AND    WHY. 

How  do  I  love  thee  ? 

Oh,  who  knows 
How  the  blush  of  the  rose 
Can  its  secret  disclose  ? 
.  Oh,  who  knows  ? 

Why  do  I  love  thee  ? 

Ah,  who  cares 
Sound  a  passion  he  shares 
With  the  angels?     Who  dares, 

Yes,  who  dares  ? 


43 


LOVE'S    GUERDON. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  to  hold  me 
To  love's  pure  rapturous  height. 

Thy  thoughts  are  pearls  to  lead  me 
To  truth  beyond  earth's  sight. 

Thy  love  is  life  to  keep  me 
Forever  in  God's  light. 


44 


A    BIRTHDAY    GREETING. 

Thy  birthday,  dear  ? 
Oh,  would  I  had  the  poet's  art 
By  which  I  could  my  wish  impart 

For  thy  new  year  ; 
But  e'en  a  poet's  pen  of  gold 
Would  fail  my  wish  to  thee  unfold 

In  earthly  sphere. 

Thy  birthday,  dear  ? 
Oh,  would  I  had  the  painter's  skill 
Prophetic  visions  to  fulfill 

For  thy  new  year  ; 
But  e'en  a  painter's  rarest  brush 
Would  but  my  holy  visions  crush, 

Or  fail  to  cheer. 

45 


46  A    BIRTHDAY  GREETING. 

Thy  birthday,  dear  ? 
Oh,  would  I  had  sweet  music's  aid 
To  vitalize  the  prayers  I've  made 

For  thy  new  year ; 
Alas  !  not  even  music's  best 
Could  put  in  form  my  soul's  behest 

For  thee,  my  dear. 

That  only  will  expression  find 

In  purest  depths  of  thine  own  mind 

This  coming  year  ; 
As,  guided  by  the  inner  light, 
There'll  come  to  thee  the  new-born  sight 

Of  ravished  seer. 

But  in  this  sight  thou  may'st  so  feel 
Eternal  beauty  o'er  thee  steal  — 

God's  gift,  my  dear  — 
That  thou  can'st  find  the  blessed  art 


A    BIRTHDAY  GREETING.  47 


-By  -which  to  mafee  e'en  depths  of  heart 
In  form  appear. 

Yet,  it  may  be  a  heaven's  birthday 
Will  have  to  dawn  for  us  to  say 

Our  best  things,  dear. 
For,  as  thou  know'st,  Truth's  deepest  well 
Must  e'er  reflect,  its  depths  to  tell 

Heaven's  atmosphere. 


THREE    KISSES. 

The  kiss  still  burns  upon  my  brow, 

That  kiss  of  long  ago, 
When  in  the  flush  of  love's  first  hour 

He  said  he  loved  me  so. 

Another  burns  yet  deeper  still, 
The  kiss  of  wedded  bliss, 

When  soul  met  soul  in  rapture  sweet  — 
Oh,  pure  love's  burning  kiss  ! 

The  third  was  laid  away  with  him, 
A  kiss  for  heaven's  day, 
(O  heart  abide  God's  way)  — 

When  in  the  life  beyond  earth's  change, 

48 


THREE   KISSES.  49 

Beyond  these  mysteries  sad  and  strange, 
New  life  will  spring  from  out  the  old, 
New  thoughts  will  larger  truth  unfold, 
And  love  have  endless  sway. 


IF    I    WERE    ONLY    SURE. 

If  I  were  only  sure 

He  loves  me  still, 

As  in  the  realms  of  beauteous  space 
(Alas  !  so  far  from  my  embrace) 

He  bides  God's  will, 
I  could  be  more  content  to  bear 
The  bitter  anguish  and  despair 

Which  now  me  fill. 

If  I  were  only  sure 

He  waits  for  me 

To  join  him  in  the  heavenly  realm 
(Oh,  how  the  thought  does  overwhelm) 

Wrhen  body-free, 
50 


IF  I    WERE    ONLY  SURE.  51 

I  could  the  better  bear  my  fate, 
As  day  by  day  I  learn  to  wait 
In  silent  agony. 

O  Father,  in  my  doubt 

One  thing  is  sure, 

That  Thou,  all  love,  could  ne'er  destroy 
(Death  only  is  in  earth's  alloy) 

Such  love  so  pure 

As  that  which  blessed  our  union  here, 
The  love  which  knew  no  change  nor  fear  — 

Such  must  endure. 


ABSENCE. 

The  days  are  happy  here,  dear, 
But  happier  would  they  be 

Could'st  thou  be  near  to  bless  me 
With  love's  sweet  ministry  ; 

Then  all  this  beauty  round  me 
Would  on  my  memory  lie, 

^\s  prayers  of  sainted  mother, 
Or  childhood's  lullaby. 

Hotel  Look-Off,  Sugar  Hill,  AT.H. 


A    LOVE    SONG. 

Oh !  ecstasy  rare 

Comes  down  to  share 
The  heart  that  with  human  love  trembles  ; 

While  all  on  the  earth 

Is  crowned  with  new  birth 
And  everything  heaven  resembles. 

But  grief  and  despair 

Have  latent  their  share 
In  hearts  that  with  human  love  tremble, 

Since  fires  of  love 

Enkindled  above 
In  frail  earthen  vessels  assemble. 

Still,  ecstasy  rare 
Comes  down  to  share 

53 


54  A    LOVE   SO.VG. 

The  heart  that  with  human  love  trembles ; 
While  all  on  the  earth 
Is  crowned  with  new  birth 

And  everything  heaven  resembles. 


IN    HER    GARDEN. 

She  picks  me  June  roses. 
Were  ever  such  roses  ? 
Their  fragrance  would  honor 
The  heavenly  halls. 

She  finds  me  pet  pansies. 
Such  wondrous-eyed  pansies, 
And  lovely  nasturtiums 
That  run  on  the  walls. 

Sweet  peas  she's  now  bringing, 
While  all  the  time  singing. 
And  I  ?     Ask  the  flowers 
To  tell  what  befalls. 


55 


LOVE'S    WISH. 

Would  I  were  beautiful ! 
Then  you  at  Beauty's  shrine  might  freely 

dine, 

A  welcome  guest 
For  joy's  bequest. 
But,  dear,  if  this  were  so,— 
If  I  were  Beauty's  child,  all  undefiled, 
To  make  you  blest 
In  beauty's  quest, 

You  might  forget  to  see 
The  soul's  pure  hidden  shrine  wherein  e'er 

shine 

The  things  that  test 
Love's  true  behest. 
56 


LOVE'S    WISH.  57 

Would  I  were  beautiful, 
That  you  might  better  see  the  soul  in  me  ! 
That  wish  is  best, 
Is  't  not,  dearest  ? 


IS  THERE  ANYTHING  PURER? 

Oh,  the  prayer  of  a  dear  virgin-heart, 
Breathed  forth  with  true  love's  gentle  art ! 
Is  there  anything  purer 

On  land  or  on  sea, 
More  laden  with  blessing 
For  you  or*  for  me  ? 

It  is  sweeter  than  song  ever  heard, 
More  precious  than  love's  spoken  word. 
It  is  fraught  with  a  keen  recognition 
Of  truest  soul-need  and  fruition. 
Is  there  anything  purer 

On  land  or  on  sea, 
More  laden  with  comfort 
For  you  or  for  me  ? 
58 


fS    THERE   ANYTHING   PURER?     59 

It  is  oftentimes  born  in  great  pain, 
With  no  ray  of  hope's  blessed  gain. 
But  as  lulled  by  the  angels  at  midnight 
Ere  reaching  the  infinite  daylight 
Is  there  anything  surer, 

On  land  or  on  sea, 
To  bring  the  God-Father 
To  you  or  to  me  ? 


LONGING. 

Through  all  this  summer  joy  and  rest, 
Though  lying  on  fair  Nature's  breast, 
There  breathes  the  longing  heart's  desire, 
Would  he  were  here  ! 

The  thrill  of  pain  kind  Nature  feels  ; 
For  all  the  while  there  o'er  me  steals 
Like  holy  chimes  in  midnight  air, 
"  He'll  soon  be  here." 

And  flowers  and  trees,  vales,  hills,  and  birds 
Make  haste  to  echo  her  glad  words, 
"  He'll  soon  be  here." 


60 


YOUNG    LOVE'S    MESSAGE. 

Sing  too,  little  bird,  what  my  heart  sings 
to-day. 

Dost  thou  know  ?  — 
I'll  speak  low  — 
"  Oh,  I  do  love  him  so." 

Hold  safe,  waving  grass,  in  thy  rhythmical 
flow, 

What  I  say, 

Till  the  day 
When  as  sweet  new-mown  hay 

Thou  can'st  bear  it  to  him  in  the  fragrance 
loved  best. 

61 


62  YOUNG   LOVE'S  MESSAGE. 

Thou  dost  fear?  — 
Oh,  love  dear, 
How  I  wish  thou  wert  here  ! 

But  pause,  little  cloud,  thou  canst  carry  it 
now, 

I  am  sure, 

Sweet  and  pure, 
Though  the  winds  do  allure ; 

For  thou  art  on  the  way  to  the  west  where 
he  is. 

But  dost  know  ?  — 

Tell  him  low, 
"  That  I  do  love  him  so, 
Oh  !   I  do  love  him  so." 


A    DIARY'S    SECRET. 

January  f,  1867. 

God's  love  was  once  enough 

My  heart  to  satisfy, 
When  in  the  days  of  childhood's  faith 

I  knew  not  doubt  or  sigh. 

But  since  I  saw  Roy's  face, 

And  knew  his  love's  sweet  cheer, 

And  felt  the  anguish  and  despair 
Which  come  from  partings  here, 

So  hungry  have  I  grown 

No  love  can  satisfy, 
And  all  my  childhood's  faith  in  God 

Doth  mock  me  as  a  lie. 

63 


64  A    DIARY'S  SECRET. 

But  still  in  these  dark  hours 
I  hold  one  anchor  fast : 

Perhaps  this  is  the  ivomari's  way 
To  reach  God's  love  at  last. 

January  /,  1887. 

The  deepening  years  have  proved 
Love's  conquest  justified. 

The  woman's  hungry  heart  at  last 
In  God  is  satisfied. 


A    MONOLOGUE. 

Has  Love  come  ? 

Ah,  too  late ! 

Already  Death  stands  o'er  me 
With  hungry  eyes  that  bore  me  — 

O  cruel  fate, 

That  after  all  life's  years 
Of  sacrifice  and  tears, 
'Tis  Death,  not  Love,  that  wins. 
But,  stay  !     This  message  bear, 
Ere  yet  Death's  work  begins  : 
"  In  other  realms  earth's  losses 
Will  change  from  saddening  crosses 

To  love-crowned  joy, 
Where  Death  shall  have  no  mission,. 
But  Love  his  sweet  fruition 

Without  alloy." 

65 


A    PRICELESS    GIFT. 

'T  was  much  he  asked  —  a  virgin  heart 

Unknown  to  worldly  ways. 
What  could  he  give  ?     Ah,  well  he  knew 

He  lacked  sweet  virtue's  praise. 

The  virgin  heart  was  given  to  him 
Without  a  doubting  thought, 

When,  lo  !  through  seeming  sacrifice 
A  miracle  was  wrought ; 

A  miracle  of  love  and  grace, 

Revealing  woman's  power ; 
For,  clothed  in  purity,  he  rose 

To  meet  the  coming  hour. 


66 


THE    OCEAN'S    MOAN. 

Last  night  the  ocean's  moan 

Was  to  my  ears 
The  deep  sad  undertone 

Of  vanished  years, 

Bearing  a  burden, 

A  bliss  unattained, 

A  strife  and  a  longing, 

A  life  sad  and  pained, 

To  the  shores  vast  and  free 

Of  eternity's  sea. 

But  in  that  undertone 

Of  restless  pain, 
Came  at  length  a  monotone 

Of  sweet  refrain, 
67 


68  THE    OCEAN'S  MOAN. 

Bearing  a  passion 

Long  known  to  the  sea  — 

Told  in  moments  of  silence 

A  sad  heart  to  free  — 

To  be  borne  me  some  day 

In  the  ocean's  own  way. 

And  this  rare  monotone 

Of  mystery 
Was  now  that  passion-moan 

Of  secrecy, 

Bearing,  "  I  love  her, 
My  moaning  ne'er'll  cease 
Till  she  on  my  breast 
Findeth  love's  perfect  peace  ; 
Till  she  on  my  breast 
Findeth  love's  perfect  rest." 

Oh,  is  there  tenderer  tone 
For  mortal  ear, 


THE    OCEANS  MOAN.  69 

Than  such  a  monotone, 
Distinct  and  clear, 

Bearing  its  comfort, 

Its  heavenly  peace, 

Its  help  for  all  sorrow, 

Its  heart-pain  release, 

To  a  soul  waiting  long 

For  love's  tender,  true  song  ? 

And  now  the  ocean's  moan 

Is  to  my  ears 
The  dearest  undertone 

Of  all  the  years, 

Bearing  a  memory, 
A  sweet  bliss  attained, 
A  gratified  longing, 
A  life's  joys  regained, 
To  the  shores  vast  and  free 
Of  eternity's  sea. 
Boar's  Head,  Hampton,  l\r.H. 


LOVE'S    FLOWER. 

Love's  sweet  and  tender  flower 

Of  pure,  perennial  life, 
Blooms  ever  fresh  in  power 

O'er  all  earth's  wrong  and  strife. 

Pluck  not  in  haste,  young  man, 
This  flower  of  wondrous  hue, 

Nor  dare  to  crush,  nor  fail  to  scan, 
Such  beauty  ever  new. 

Gaze  at  it  long,  young  girl, 
And  guard  its  sacred  blush ; 

Then  shall  its  treasures  old  unfurl 
Your  yearning  soul  to  hush. 


70 


LOVE    DISCROWNED. 

(In  Four  Scenes.} 
SCENE    I. 

When  he  comes,  my  darling, 

I  shall  tell  him  all : 
All  the  secret  ecstasy, 

All  the  peace  and  joy, 
All  my  heart's  sweet  fantasy, 

Free  from  self's  alloy, — 
All- 

O  blessed  power 
Of  love's  sweet  hour, 
When  I  shall  tell  him  all, 
Shall  tell  him  all !  " 


7 2  LOVE  DISCROWNED. 

SCENE   ii. 

"  Hark,  hark  !  he's  come.     I  hear  his  step. 

0  joy,  love's  hour  is  here. 

I  knew  that  he  was  true  and  pure, 

1  could  not  feel  love's  fear. 
Oh,  no ;   I  could  not,  dear." 


SCENE  in. 

She  gave  one  look,  one  piercing  look, 
Drew  back  her  anguished  soul, 

Then  murmured  low,  "  O  bitter  hour  ! 
But  —  God  —  forgive  —  the  —  whole 

Forgive  — 

O  bitter  power 
Of  love's  death-hour, 
I  thought  to  tell  him  all, 
To  tell  him  all." 


LOVE   DISCROWNED.  73 

SCENE    IV. 

He  gazed  upon  her  lifeless  face, 

He  held  her  lifeless  hand. 
Was  this  the  form  he  once  had  loved  ? 

He  did  not  understand. 
Once  loved  ?     Yes,  that  was  so. 

He'd  loved  since,  one  or  two, 
And  —  well,  what  was  a  woman  for, 

If  not  for  man  to  woo  ? 

MORAL. 

Alas,  for  broken  hearts  and  lives 
Of  those  who  can  but  trust ! 

Alas,  for  those  who  see  no  law 
But  that  of  selfish  must ! 


RENUNCIATION. 

"  OJi,  is  not  love  eternal 

When  once  the  heart  be  won  ? 

Oh,  is  not  love  infernal 

When  love  can  be  undone  ?  " 

So  sighed  a  gentle  maiden 
In  light  of  memory  dear, 

As,  sad  and  heavy-laden, 

She  longed  for  knowledge  clear. 

But  soon  the  bitter  heart-ache 
Gave  way  to  victory's  cheer  ; 

For,  brave,  she  chose  for  His  sake 
The  life  which  knows  no  peer ; 
74 


RENUNCIA  TION.  7  5 

The  life  of  abnegation 

Which  gives  the  Christ's  own  peace, 
But  leaves  the  sad  temptation 

To  ask  for  life's  release. 


A   WIDOW'S    HEART- CRY. 

"  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  !  " 
So  breathe  I  when  the  day's  begun, 
So  breathe  I  when  the  day  is  done. 

I  whisper  it  in  blinding  tears, 

I  pause  and  listen,  till  appears 

The  welcome  voice  for  listening  ears ; 

The  voice  which  checks  my  wayward  will 
And  makes  my  longing  heart  to  thrill 
With  love  for  those  who  need  me  still. 

But,  O,  how  long  must  I  so  pray  ? 

When  will  I  learn  to  calmly  say, 

"  Thy  will  is  mine,"  both  night  and  day  ? 

76 


A    WIDOW'S  HEART- CRY.  77 

Ah  !  this  can  never  be  on  earth, 
Since  he  who  gladly  gave  me  birth 
To  everything  that  was  of  worth 

Has  gone  from  out  my  sense  and  sight, 
To  what  ?     O  ye  who  still  invite 
To   heaven's   sure   realm   and  faith's   own 
right, 

Reveal  some  clue  for  me  to  see 
What  life  is  his,  what  he's  to  me. 
Alas  !  ye  can't.     Then  what  can  be 

More  precious  when  the  day  is  done, 

Or  when  the  morning  is  begun, 

Than,  "Not  my  will,  but  Thine,  be  done." 


tririrBBsiTr 


TQGETHER. 

Transformed,  redeemed  from  all  that  dwarfs 

or  blights, 

In  perect  harmony  with  beauteous  sights 
Beyond  imagination's  highest  flights 

Ere  reached  by  seer, 
We  shall  together  walk  the  golden  streets 

Sometime,  my  dear. 

But  how,  you  ask,  shall  we  each  other  know, 
So  changed  from  what  we  were  while  here 

below, 

When,  caged  like  birds,  we  longed  and  suf 
fered  so  ? 

Ah,  do  not  fear. 
78 


TOGETHER.  79 

Will  not  the  soul,  when  free,  seek  like  the 
bird 

Its  own,  my  dear  ? 

It  may  not  be  at  once  of  soon,  'tis  true. 
For  you  may  be  among  the  blessed  few 
Who'll  sooner  reach  the  blissful  heights  — 
your  due 

For  pure  life  here  — 
But  sometime,  sure  as  God  is  love  and  truth, 

We'll  meet,  my  dear. 

Some  precious,  long-forgotten  look  or  word 
Breathed  through  the  softest,  sweetest  music 

heard, 
Or  some  vibration  rare  of  soul  depths  stirred 

By  memory's  tear, 
Will,  like  a  flash  of  light,  reveal  our  souls 

Together,  dear, 
To  live  the  fuller  life  we've  dreamed  of  here. 


SHADOWED    CIRCLES. 

Why  weepest  thou,  O  dear  one  ? 

Do  sorrows  press  ? 
Beneath  the  weight  of  sorrow 

Is  love's  caress. 

Why  joyest  thou,  O  dear  one  ? 

Is  love  thine  own  ? 
Ah  !  'neath  love's  deep  rejoicing 

Is  sorrow's  moan. 

Indeed,  all  earth's  great  passions 

Is  it  not  so  ?  — 
Are  circled  in  the  shadow 

Of  joy  or  woe. 
80 


S/L1 D  O  WED    CIR  CL  ES. 

But  why  should  we  bemoan  this  ? 

Could  otherwise 
Truth's  dazzling  light  be  subject 

To  mortal  eyes  ? 

Could  otherwise  we  enter 
The  endless  light, 

Beyond  the  shadowed  circle 
Of  mortal  sight  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


A    SONG   OF    SUCCESS. 

YOUTH. 

I  am  dancing  along.     Just  to  live  is  a  joy, 

I'm  so  happy  and  free. 

I  know  not  nor  care  what  will  tame  or  de 
stroy, 

Life  now  satisfies  me. 
Oh,  there's  naught  like  dear  youth 
To  reveal  the  glad  truth 
That  'tis  pure,  healthful  joy  just  to  know 
and  to  be  ! 

MIDDLE    AGE. 

I   am  marching  along,  full  of  work  and  of 

plan 
To  alleviate  wrong. 

85 


86  A    SONG    OF  SUCCESS. 

With  a  heart  full  of  love  both  to  God  and 

to  man, 

And  an  arm  free  and  strong. 
Oh,  there's  naught  like  mid-life 
To  make  sure  without  strife 
The  beauty  of  progress  through  action  and 
song. 

OLD    AGE. 

I  am  living  along,  sitting  down  by  the  way. 

My  work  is  all  done. 

I  have  fought  the  good  fight,  known  trie  full 
of  each  day, 

And  true  victory  won. 

Oh,  there's  naught  like  old  age 

To  declare  with  the  sage, 
Life  ending  on  earth  is  but  heaven  begun. 


THE   UNDER-WORLD. 

Under  the  restless  surface 
Of  ocean's  vast  domain, 

The  god  of  perfect  quiet 
Holds  ever  peaceful  reign. 

Under  the  restless  surface 
Of  passions  strong  and  wild, 

The  still  small  voice  of  conscience 
Is  heard  in  accents  mild. 

Under  the  restless  surface 
Of  all  man's  life  on  earth, 

The  Christ  of  sacred  story 
Renews  each  day  his  birth. 


SHE    KNOWS. 

(Written  at  Mountain  Cottage,  on  Klount  U'ackitsett,  where 
Louisa.  M.  Alcott  spent  the  last  summer  of  her  life.) 

Last    summer    she    believed    that    in    and 

through  these  beauteous  scenes 
God's  loving  self  did  flow, 
But  now  she  knows  'tis  so. 

For,  having  crossed  the  boundary  lines  of 

honest  doubt  and  fear, 
She  sees  with  spirit-eye 
What  sense  could  not  descry. 

Her  firm  belief,  thus  blossomed  into  perfect 

flower  of  sight, 
Becomes  a  restful  cheer 
To  all  who  linger  here, 
88 


SHE   KNOWS.  89 

Still  asking  for  the  secret  of  these  changing, 

beauteous  scenes, 
And  troubled  with  the  why 
Of  all  earth's  sorrowing  cry. 

Her  presence  here  has  filled  the  place  with 

memory  of  a  soul 
Made  beautiful  through  pain 
Eternity  to  gain. 

August,  1 888. 


AT    PITTSFORD,    VERMONT. 

TO    J.  A.  C. 

As  winds  the  lovely  Otter  Creek  through 

vales  of  summer  green, 
Ne'er  pausing  on  its  way, 
Though  love  its  tribute  pay, 

So  gently  winds  my  loving  thought  through 

memory's  changing  scenes, 
To  days  of  long  ago 
When  thee  I  first  did  know. 

Thy  heartfelt  sympathy  and  help  were  to 

my  fresh  young  soul 
What  these  dear  Vermont  hills 
Are  to  the  little  rills  ; 
90 


AT  PITTSFORD,   VERMONT.  91 

A  presence  near,  a  faithful  strength,  life- 
giving  and  serene  — 
Oh,  hills,  be  now  as  much 
To  her  who  feels  Time's  touch  ! 

In  different  paths,  through   various  ways, 
we've  known  the  world  since  then. 
Together  now  we  rest 
On  Nature's  peaceful  breast. 


CHILDHOOD'S    DAYS. 

TO    M.    C. 

If  knowledge  gained  in  later  years 

May  wholly  cloud  from  sight 
The  ^glimpse   which   childhood's   eye   hath 
caught 

Of  heaven's  celestial  light, 

Then  need  we  not  the  atmosphere 

Of  second  childhood's  days 
To  catch  another  broader  glimpse 

Of  heaven's  immortal  rays  ? 

Ah,  yes ;  we  even  need  to  seek, 

Through  earth's  illusive  hour, 
Immortal  childhood's  heavenly  days 

Of  sweet,  revealing  power  ; 
92 


CHILDHOOD'S  DAYS. 

For  how  can  otherwise  we  catch 
The  deeper  glimpses  yet 

Of  life  eternal,  glorious,  pure, 
Where  sun  hath  never  set  ? 


93 


AN    ANSWER. 

TO    B.    P.  S. 

"  Why  don't  I  write  a  story  ?  " 
Ah,  friend,  if  you  could  see 

The  depths  of  hidden  heart-life 
Alas  !  so  known  to  me, 

You'd  find  the  truest  story 

Flashed  out  in  gleams  of  light, 

Before  which  all  pens  falter 
And  vanish  out  of  sight. 

And  as  they  vanish  from  me 
They  leave  the  impress  clear, 

That  only  Heaven's  pen  could  write 
Such  stories  acted  here. 
94 


AN  ANSWER.  95 

So  in  His  book  of  life, 

Revealed  to  all  some  day, 
You'll  find  my  story  grand  and  true, 

Worked  out  in  His  own  way. 


WHERE  ?     WHAT  ?     \VHENCE  ? 

The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  where  ? 

Oh,  where  ? 
Would  that  the  heart  which  with  pity  o'er- 

flows, 

While  deigning  love's  burdens  to  share, 
Could  disclose ! 

The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  what  ? 

Oh,  what  ? 
Would    that   the    Infinite    Presence   which 

flows 

Through  a  life  on  the  earth  finely  cut 
Might  disclose  ! 

The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  whence  ? 
Oh,  whence  ? 
96 


WHERE?  WHAT?  WHENCE?   97 

Ah  !  let  the  wind  and  the  breath  of  the  rose 
Their  secrets  of  life  and  of  sense 

Dare  disclose  ! 
Could  we  then  see  the  better  whence  spirit 

arose  ? 
Who  knows  ?     Oh,  who  knows  ? 


HEROES. 

The  heroes  on  the  battlefield  are  calm  in 
death, 

Their  fighting  o'er ; 
They  feel  no  more  the  fevered  breath 

Of  battle's  war ; 

They  hear  at  last  the  voice  that  saith 
"  Fight  on  no  more." 

But  oh,  the  heroes  on  the  grander  field  of 
peace. 

Who  know  no  rest ! 
Whose  hearts  ne'er  feel  the  full  release 

From  mortal  quest, 

Nor  breathe  the  air  where  struggles  cease 
The  soul  to  test. 
98 


HEROES.  99 

For  such  we  mourn,   O  purifying  soul  of 
life, 

For  such  we  pray. 
Let  Nature  free  them  from  the  strife 

Of  falsehood's  way, 
And  Love  through  every  struggle  rife 
Have  free,  full  play. 


A    MAGDALEN'S    EASTER    CRY. 

In  the  different  mansions  of  heavenly  space 
Prepared  for  the  faithful  and  pure, 
(Ah  me,  for  the  faithful  and  pure !) 

Can  I  dare  hope  to  find  e'en  a  small  resting 

place 
Free  from  sin  and  all  earthly  allure  ? 

Can  a  soul  such  as  mine,  that  has  wasted 

life's  wealth 

On  the  baubles  and  gewgaws  of  time, 
(Ah  me,  on  the  baubles  of  time  !) 
Have  a  fitting  strength  left  to  regain  needed 

health 
For  the  life  of  a  heavenly  clime  ? 

100 


A  MAGDALEN'S  EASTER  CRY.     101 

For  a  life  where  the  laws  of  the  spirit,  not 

sense, 

Bring  their  perfect  eternal  reward, 
(Ah  me,  their  eternal  reward  !) 
And  the  pleasures  obtained  with  such  fever 

intense 
Can  find  nowhere  a  vibrating  chord  ? 

Oh,  woe  is  me,  woe  is  me,  this  Easter  day ! 

No  hope  riseth  up  in  my  soul. 

(Ah  me,  my  poor  sin-laden  soul !) 
I  have  only  the  dregs  of  my  pleasure  to  pay, 

And  such  wrong,  bitter  thoughts  of  life's 
whole. 

But,  listen!    What's  that?    What's  that  mes 
sage  I  hear 

Bearing  down  on  my  sad  troubled  heart  ? 
(Ah  me,  on  my  sad  troubled  heart !) 


102    A  MAGDALEN'S  EASTER  CRY. 

"  Christ   is   risen  indeed.     He   is  risen  to 

cheer, 
And  His  strength  to  the  weakest  impart." 

O  Christ,  can  it  be  that  Thine  own  risen 

strength 

Can  give  life,  added  life,  to  my  soul, 
To  my  sin-laden,  weak,  starving  soul  ? 
Yes,  'tis  true.     I'll  believe,  and  rejoice  now 

at  length 
To  feel  Easter's  sweet  joy  o'er  me  roll. 


FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  MRS. 
BROWNING'S    DEATH. 

June  sg,   1861. 

"  Tis  beautiful,"  she  faintly  cried, 
Then  closed  her  weary  eyes  and  died. 

So  stands  plain  fact  on  history's  page, 
Attested  to  by  friend  and  sage. 

But  in  our  hearts  the  fact  grows  bright, 
Illumined  with  immortal  light. 

For  open  eyes  saw  heaven's  shores, 
And  life,  not  death,  revealed  its  stores. 

"  'Tis  beautiful !  "     It  must  be  so, 
If  such  a  soul  'midst  parting's  woe, 
103 


104    FOR   THE  ANNIVERSARY,  ETC. 

Could  with  truth's  perfect  clearness  see 
The  secret  of  life's  mystery ; 

Could  know  that  fullest  life  of  man 
Needs  heaven's  light  to  round  God's  plan. 

O  woman-soul  without  a  peer, 

\Ye  thank  thee  more  and  more  each  year 

For  this  sweet  proof  of  Beauty's  power 
Beyond  earth's  transitory  hour. 

It  calms  our  hours  of  doubt  and  pain, 
And  beautifies  earth's  troubled  reign, 

To  feel  that  thou  art  sending  still 
This  same  sweet  message  of  God's  will, 

Born  of  fruition's  grander  sight, 
Of  perfect  beauty,  peace,  and  light. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 

"A  peace  out  of  pain, 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast. 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul,  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest !  " 

—  Prospice. 

Fulfilled  December  12,  1889. 

Oh,  the  blessed  fruition 
Of  peace  out  of  pain  ! 

Of  a  light  without  darkness, 
A  clasping  again  ! 

Of  a  full  soul  reunion 
In  Love's  endless  reign  ! 

Sing,  O  earth,  with  new  joy 

At  this  victory  won  ! 
For  the  faith  that  endured 

Till  the  setting  of  sun  ! 

105 


io6  ROBERT  BROWX1XG, 

For  the  hope  that  shone  clear 
Through  the  mighty  work  done  ! 

For  the  love  that  sought  God 
To  guide  love  here  begun  ! 

Sing,  O  earth,  with  new  joy 
For  such  victory  won  ! 


TO    NEPTUNE,    IN    BEHALF    OF 
S.    C.   G. 

O  Neptune,  in  thy  vast  survey 

Of  all  the  ships  that  sail, 
Watch  lovingly  the  well-known  way 

Of  one  we  wait  to  hail. 

The  Cephalonia  is  her  name  — 

But  why  need  I  tell  more  ? 
Thou  knowest  indeed  the  well  earned  fame 

She  bears  from  shore  to  shore. 

But  since  among  her  company's  band 

Is  one  who  's  life  to  me, 
O  Neptune,  bear  her  in  thy  hand 

E'en  yet  more  tenderly, 
107 


io8  TO   NEPTUNE,   ETC. 

O'er  gentle  waves,  'neath  fair  blue  sky, 
'Midst  winds  that  only  blow 

To  make  the  time  more  swiftly  fly 
For  hearts  that  hunger  so. 

Boston,  September  4,  1886. 


TO    THE    PANSIES    GROWING    ON 
THE    GRAVE    OF    A.    S.   D. 

Beautiful  pansies,  ye  must  know 

Your  sacred  mission  here, 
For  how  could  otherwise  ye  grow 

So  sweet  and  full  of  cheer  ? 

Your  watchful  love  we  can't  o'errate, 

As,  lingering  here  in  tears, 
Fond  memory  brings  the  precious  weight 

Of  friendship's  golden  years. 

Ye  are  the  symbols,  pure  and  sweet, 

Of  heartsease  and  of  life, 
Through  which  our  thought  may  dare  retreat 

From  pain  and  death  so  rife, 
109 


no  TO    THE   PANSIES,   ETC. 

To  realms  of  light  and  peace  above, 
From  earth's  alloy  set  free, 

Wherein  abide  immortal  love 
And  deathless  ministry. 

But  still,  while  we  your  comfort  seek, 
Our  hearts  will  wildly  yearn 

To  hear  once  more  the  loved  one  speak, 
Once  more  the  form  discern. 

At  Woodlaivn  Cemetery,  May,  1886. 


A    BROKEN    HEART. 


Must  I  always  look  for  sorrow 

On  the  morrow  ? 
Must  I  never  have  the  hope 
That  a  life  of  larger  scope 
Will  before  my  vision  ope  ? 

ii. 

Ah,  'tis  true  there  is  but  sorrow 
On  the  morrow 

For  the  broken  hearts  that  wait, 

Bearing  secretly  their  fate. 

Yet  the  opening  of  the  gate 
To  the  blessed  heaven's  morrow, 

When  the  aching,  longing  heart 


H2  A    BROKEN  HEART. 

Shall  be  free  from  pain  and  sorrow,. 
Comes  before  my  tired  eyes 
With  a  wondrous  sweet  surprise. 

in. 

But  this  joy  is  not  for  me, 

Not  for  me. 

Alas  !  for  my  poor  broken  heart, 
With  its  poisoned  arrow's  dart. 
Without  hope,  alone,  apart. 


MY    RELEASE. 

I  hear  in  the  ocean's  restless  moan 
My  soul's  lament. 
Will  it  ever  cease  ? 

I  feel  in  the  rumbling  earthquake's  groan 
Deep  anguish  spent. 
Shall  I  now  know  peace  ? 

I  see  in  the  smallest  heaven's  loan 
Enough  for  content  — 
But  is  that  release  ? 

O  no! 

My  release  is  but  found  in  the  pure  under 
tone, 
Coming  nearer  and  dearer  to  me, 

-3 


H4  MY   RELEASE. 

Of  a  great  human  love  beyond  Nature  at 

best, 

Eternal,  inspiring,  and  free. 
Oh,  that's  my  release. 
Happy  me,  happy  me  ! 


THE   GOD    OF   MUSIC. 

TO    E.  T.  G. 

Out  from  the  depths  of  silence 
The  god  of  music  came, 

To  echo  heavenly  cadence 

On  earth's  fair  shores  of  fame. 

Full-orbed,  with  heavenly  glory, 
He  met  the  lords  of  earth. 

But  'twas  the  old,  old  story, 
They  blind  were  to  his  worth. 

So  back  to  depths  of  silence 
He  flew  on  wings  of  light, 

"To  bide  their  time  of  nonsense," 
He  sang  when  out  of  sight. 
"5 


n6  THE    GOD    OF  MUSIC. 

And  as  rolled  on  the  ages, 

He  ever  and  anon 
Sent  down  to  earth  his  pages 

The  lords  to  breathe  upon. 

At  length  he  felt  vibrations, 
From  Germany's  fair  clime, 

Of  sweetest  modulations 

E'er  heard  in  realms  of  time. 

So  forth  he  flew  in  rapture 
To  that  dear  father-land, 

To  seize  —  ere  earth  could  capture 
A  spirit  pure  and  grand, 

To  which  he  could  surrender 
Himself  with  perfect  ease, 

And  weave  the  music  tender, 
Of  heaven's  own  harmonies. 


THE    GOD    OF  MUSIC.  117 

He  found  the  child  Beethoven  ; 

On  him  his  blessing  fell. 
And  in  his  soul  was  woven 

The  sounds  we  know  so  well. 


TO    WILHELM    GERICKE. 

(On  the  completion  of  his  conductorship  of  the  Boston  Sym 
phony  Orchestra.} 

1884-1889. 

Great  poets  can  without  the  aid 

Of  kindred  mind 
Reveal  to  us  the  secrets  laid 

On  them  to  find  ; 
But  music-kings  need  ministries 
To  sound  their  hidden  harmonies. 

For  showing  us  the  inmost  heart 

Of  these  great  kings, 
And  making  clear  with  wondrous  art 

Their  wanderings, 

We  thank  thee,  while  we  tender  here 
A  '-'bon  voyage"  to  home's  loved  sphere. 


nS 


FOR    E.  T.    F. 


AFTER    THE    BIRTH    OF    HER    SON,    R.    A.   F. 
May  28,  1887. 

I'd  rather  hear  my  baby's  coo, 

That  little  gurgling  coo, 
Than  rarest  song  or  symphony 
Born  out  of  music's  mystery 
Which  once  did  woo. 

I'd  rather  see  my  baby's  face, 
That  lovely  dimpled  face, 
Than  all  the  choicest  works  of  art, 
Inspired  by  loving  hand  or  heart, 
Contained  in  space. 
119 


120  FOR    K.    T.    F. 

I'd  rather  feel  my  baby's  eyes, 

Such  deep  blue  heavenly  eyes, 
Than  all  the  world's  delighted  gaze, 
Proclaiming  with  continued  praise 
My  power  to  rise. 

O  yes,  'tis  true,  my  baby  dear, 

My  precious  baby  dear, 
Is  more  than  music,  art,  or  fame, 
Or  anything  that  bears  the  name 
Of  pleasure  here. 

For  in  this  joy  I  find  a  rest, 

A  soul-inspiring  rest, 
Beyond  the  wealth  of  fame  or  art, 
To  satisfy  my  woman-heart. 
Or  make  it  blest. 

And  as  I  live  in  this  my  gift, 

My  heaven-sent,  blessed  gift, 


FOR    E.    T.    A  121 

Thoughts  such  as  Mary  pondered  o'er 
Deep  in  her  heart  in  days  of  yore 
Come  to  uplift, 

And  make  the  claims  of  motherhood, 

Dear  sacred  motherhood, 
Become  creation's  mountain  height, 
Whereon  e'er  shines  the  beacon-light 
Of  womanhood. 

Chelsea,  Mass. 


AFTER    THE    DEATH    OF    R.  A.   F. 
February  5,  1888. 

Would  I  could  see  my  baby's  face, 
That  lovely  dimpled  face, — 


122  FOR    E.    T.    /-'. 

O  God,  how  can  I  bear  the  pain 
Of  never  seeing  it  again, 
My  baby's  face ; 

Of  never  seeing  in  those  eyes, 

Those  deep  blue  heavenly  eyes, 
The  wondrous  glimpses  of  soul-light 
Which  filled  my  heart  with  strange  delight 
And  sweet  surprise ; 

Of  never  hearing  baby's  coo, 
That  little  gurgling  coo  — 

0  God,  how  can  I  bear  the  pain 
Of  never  hearing  it  again, 

My  baby's  coo. 

Alas  !     "  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done." 
Not  mine,  but  Thine,  be  done. 

1  can  but  breathe  again  this  prayer, 
As  in  the  days  of  past  despair, 

When  peace  was  won. 


TO    C.    H.    F. 

( Upon  receiving  a  twig  of  green  from  the  grave  of  Helen 
Hunt  Jackson,  October,  1888.) 

With  reverent  touch  and  grateful  heart, 
Dear  thoughtful  friend, 

I  hold  this  precious  bit  of  green 
You  kindly  send 

From  Cheyenne's  holy,  lonely  grave, 
Where  pilgrims  tend. 

It  touches  springs  of  tenderest  life 

Inspired  by  her, 
Who,  child  of  poetry  and  ease, 

Did  not  demur 
From  sacrificing  all  to  be 

Wrong's  arbiter. 


124  TO    C.   H.   F. 

That  rare  mosaic  it  suggests 

Made  by  the  hand 
Of  those  who  seek  this  favored  spot 

In  chosen  land, 
Where,  oft  in  life,  she  penned  her  soul 

At  Truth's  command. 

'Tis  true,  she  wished  no  monument 

To  mark  the  place ; 
But  must  she  not  be  satisfied 

To  see  the  space 
Thus  blessed  and  open  to  the  heart 

Of  every  race  ? 

O  brain  of  power  and  heart  of  fire, 

America's  pride, 
No  wonder  that  the  mountain  height, 

Above  sin's  tide, 
Was  chosen  as  the  resting  place 

With  death  to  hide ; 


TO    C.  H.  F.  125, 

For  such  could  give  the  needed  rest 

On  earth  denied, 
Could  satisfy  the  poet's  thought, 

Unsatisfied, 
And  symbolize  the  soul's  true  rest 

When  glorified. 


AN    ANNIVERSARY    POEM. 

And  is  time  marked  in  heaven  ?    Dost  know, 

O  spirit  friend, 
'Tis  just  a  year  ago  to-day 
Thou  went  so  suddenly  away, 
And   left  me  in   my   loneliness   the   weary 
days  to  spend  ?  — 

Ah,  weary  days. 
Denied  thy  praise 
And  all  thy  many  helpful  ways  ! 

And  is  earth  known  in  heaven  ?     Dost  see, 

O  clear-eyed  soul, 
The  present  changing  life  of  man 
Still  working  out  the  wondrous  plan 

126 


AN  ANNIVERSARY  POEM.         127 

Of   making  even  broken   lives  add  to  the 
complete  whole?  — 
Ah,  broken  lives 
That  death  deprives 
Of  help  like  thine  that  heavenward  strives! 

And  are  we  known  in  heaven  ?     Do  I,  thy 

once  fond  care, 

Still  have  that  patient  yearning  love 
Which  longed  to  lift  my  soul  above 
The  sweet  though  transitory  joys  of  even 
earth's  best  fare  ?  — 

Ah,  earth's  best  fare 
Cannot  compare 
With  thy  ideal  of  me  laid  bare  ! 


A    COMFORT. 

TO    S.    R.    H. 

I  have  sowed  in  tears, — 

Shall  I  reap  in  joy  ? 
Shall  my  human  heart  be  satisfied, 
And  sorrow  and  pain  be  justified  ? 
Shall  full  fruition  free  my  soul 
From  limitation's  sad  control, 
And  all  my  faculties  of  mind 
Their  perfect  rest  and  freedom  find  ? 

"  They  that  sow  in  tears 

Shall  reap  in  joy," 
Sang  a  poet-heart  in  the  long  ago, 
'Midst  depths  of  sorrow,  pain,  and  woe; 
And  what  to  him  was  truth  and  life 
Has  shone  through  all  the  ages'  strife, 
To  be  at  last  our  beacon-light 
Of  comfort  in  the  darkest  night. 
128 


AN    ANNIVERSARY. 

The  autumn  tints  of  these  loved  hills 

Outlined  against  the  sky, 
Are  dearer  far  to  me  this  year 

Than  in  the  years  gone  by ; 

For  they  are  colors  Nature  wears 

To  celebrate  the  time 
When  her  pet  child  changed  life  on  earth 

For  that  of  heavenly  clime. 

She  thus  rejoices,  while  our  hearts 
Wear  not  their  flowers  of  joy. 

Alas  !  could  she  but  give  us  back 
Our  gifted  artist  boy  ! 
129 


130  AN  ANNIVERSARY. 

But  then  she  sees  that  it  was  best 
..     That  he,  like  her,  should  know 
Death,  and  the  Resurrection  too, 
The  fullest  life  to  show. 


A    THANK-OFFERING. 

TO    MISS    ELIZABETH    P.    PEABODY. 

Thou  priestess  of  pure  childhood's  heart, 

Wherein  God's  spirit  lies, 
Thou  willing  priestess  of  the  art 

Of  true  self-sacrifice, 

Ere  thy  rare  spirit  takes  its  flight 
To  realms  beyond  our  praise, 

Where  childhood's  pure  eternal  light 
Shines  through  the  blessed  days, 

We  thank  thee  for  thy  legacy 
Of  thought  wrought  out  in  deed, 


132  A    THANK-OFFERING. 

By  which  love's  sweet  supremacy 
Becomes  man's  potent  need. 


Our  nation  must  thy  secret  share, 

Ere  it  can  fully  rise 
To  heights  of  truth  and  insight  where 

True  wisdom's  glory  lies. 


AT    LIFE'S    SETTING. 

Put  your  arms  around  me. 

There  —  like  that. 
I  want  a  little  petting 
At  life's  setting. 
For  'tis  harder  to  be  brave 
When  feeble  age  comes  creeping, 
And  finds  me  weeping 
(Dear  ones  gone), 
Or  brings  before  my  tired  eyes 
Sweet  visions  of  my  youth's  fair  prize 
(There  is  a  pain  in  sacrifice), 
Denied  me  then  and  ever. 
Left  me  alone  ?     No,  never. 
For  in  God's  love  I  nestled, 
While  with  deep  thought  I  wrestled, 


134  AT  LIFE'S  SETTING. 

Till  all  my  busy  life  at  length 
Was  spent  in  giving  others  strength, 
In  making  others'  homes  more  bright, 
In  making  others'  burdens  light. 


But  now,  alone  and  weary, 

I  am  hungry 
For  a  human  love's  sweet  petting 

At  life's  setting. 
Keep  your  arms  around  me. 

Kiss  my  fevered  brow, 
Whisper  that  you  love  me  — 
I  can  bear  it  now. 

Oh,  how  this  does  rest  me 
Now  my  work  is  done  ! 

I've  all  my  life  loved  others, 
Now  I  want  love,  dear  one. 


AT  LIFE'S  SETTING.  135 

Just  a  little  petting 

At  life's  setting ; 
For  I'm  old,  alone,  and  tired, 
And  my  long  life's  work  is  done. 


GRANDMA    WAITING. 

A    TRUE    EXPERIENCE. 

"  Still  waiting,  dear  good  grandma,  for  the 
blessed  angel  Death  ?  " 

"Yes   waiting,   only  waiting    to    be   borne 

across  the  sea, 
To  the  home  my  soul's  been  building  all 

these  years  of  mystery, 
Through  ninety  years  and  over  now  of  deep 

and  wondrous  change, 
Wherein  I've  known  the  heights  and  depths 

of  human  feeling's  range, 
And  tried  to   solve    the  problems    old    of 

human  life  so  strange. 


136 


GRANDMA    WAITING.  137 

You  want  to  know  my  history,    because  I 

am  so  good  ? 
Ah,  child,  no  human   life  can  here  be  fully 

understood. 
You  call   me   good,  and   what   is   more,   a 

'  true  and  blessed  saint.' 
(There  is  illusion  sweet  indeed  in  what  you 

child-souls  paint 
Before  you  know  too  much  of  life  and  feel 

its  evil  taint.) 
You   even    picture    beauties    of    my    home 

across  the  sea 
Which  I  never  dared  to  hope  for  e'en  on 

heights  of  ecstasy. 
You   see    me   sitting   helpless    here,   blind 

now  for  many  years, 
Apparently  so  full  of  peace,  so  free  from 

doubts  and  fears, — 
Though  never  free  from  Memory's  thought 

which  often  brings  the  tears,— 


138  GRANDMA    WAITING. 

And  you  wonder  where's  the  passion  and 

the  energy  of  youth, 
The  power  that  even  dared  to  sway  to  evil 

ways  forsooth. 
Ah,  you  but  see  the  blessed  fruit  of  what 

God  planted  sure, 

When  in  my  years  of  sorrow  He  was  whis 
pering,  '  Endure.' 
You  cannot  see  the  dreadful  scars  which 

naught  on  earth  can  cure. 
You  cannot   see   the   passion   wild,   when, 

'neath  the  coffin  lid, 
Among  the  flowers,  my  children  three,  my 

precious  all,  were  hid. 

Nor  can  you  see  my  conflict  sore,  when   I 

went  almost  mad 
Before    the   dying  form   of    him   who  had 

loved  me  from  a  lad, 


GRANDMA     WAITING.  139 

A  loving  husband,  kind  and  true,  as  ever 
woman  had. 

But  still,  before  my  dear  one  died,  more 
children  came  to  me  : 

Two  lovely  boys,  who  seemed  at  last  a 
recompense  to  be. 

For  sometimes  it  does  seem  as  if  God  sends 
a  special  gift, 

To  be  a  special  help  and  strength,  the  sel 
fish  clouds  to  lift, 

Or  —  what,  perhaps,  we  need  as  much —  the 
wheat  from  chaff  to  sift. 

Through  all  my  lonely,  widowed  life  I  lived 
in  their  sweet  ways, 

And  found  no  sacrifice  too  great  in  work 
for  future  days. 

At  length  they  were  my  crowning  joy.  I'd 
come  again  to  know 

The  blessings  of  a  married  life  —  the  hap 
piest  here  below  — 


142  GRANDMA    WAITING. 

And  been  as  good  for  duties  here,  as  fit  for 

heaven's  reign  ? 
Was  this  the  way,  the  only  way,  eternal  life 

to  gain  ? 

It  cannot  be  much  longer.     I    shall  soon 

have  crossed  the  sea, 
To  the  home  my  soul's  been  building  all 

these  years  of  mystery. 
I've  had  my  share  of  sorrow,  but  I've  done 

the  best  I  could. 
God  knows  I've  tried  through  all  to  grow 

more  patient,  wise,  and  good ; 
To  get  at  least  this  out  of  life,  as  every 

mortal  should. 
But,  though  I've  had  his  comfort,  and  still 

hear  his  sweet  '  Endure,' 
I  feel  the  bitter  heartache  which  no  time 

or  sense  can  cure. 


GRANDMA    WAITING.  143 

My  friends  have  all   been  laid  away,   my 

work  long  since  was  o'er, 
And    now    I'm    only   waiting   for    Death's 

landing  on  the  shore. 
I  hope  'twill  be  at  sunset  when  he  knocks 

at  my  soul's  door  ; 
For,  somehow,  it  much  easier  seems  to  go 

the  unknown  way 
Attended  by  the  beauty  of  the  sun's  last 

glorious  ray. 
But  as  I   calmly  wait   and   think,  it   does 

seem  rather  queer 
That   what   you   '  blessed    angel '   call   has 

seemed  my  chief  curse  here. 
Alas !   how   much  we   suffer   before   God's 

ways  appear." 


142  GRANDMA    WAITING. 

And  been  as  good  for  duties  here,  as  fit  for 

heaven's  reign  ? 
Was  this  the  way,  the  only  way,  eternal  life 

to  gain  ? 

It  cannot  be  much  longer.     I    shall  soon 

have  crossed  the  sea, 
To  the  home  my  soul's  been  building  all 

these  years  of  mystery. 
I've  had  my  share  of  sorrow,  but  I've  done 

the  best  I  could. 
God  knows  I've  tried  through  all  to  grow 

more  patient,  wise,  and  good ; 
To  get  at  least  this  out  of  life,  as  every 

mortal  should. 
But,  though  I've  had  his  comfort,  and  still 

hear  his  sweet  '  Endure/ 
I  feel  the  bitter  heartache  which  no  time 

or  sense  can  cure. 


GRANDMA    WAITING.  143 

My  friends  have  all   been  laid  away,   my 

work  long  since  was  o'er, 
And    now    I'm    only   waiting   for    Death's 

landing  on  the  shore. 
I  hope  'twill  be  at  sunset  when  he  knocks 

at  my  soul's  door  ; 
For,  somehow,  it  much  easier  seems  to  go 

the  unknown  way 
Attended  by  the  beauty  of  the  sun's  last 

glorious  ray. 
But  as  I   calmly  wait   and   think,  it   does 

seem  rather  queer 
That   what   you   '  blessed    angel '   call   has 

seemed  my  chief  curse  here. 
Alas !   how   much  we   suffer   before   God's 

ways  appear." 


DOES    IT    PAY? 

Does  it  pay  —  all  this  burden  and  worry, 
All  the  learning  acquired  with  pain, 

All  the  planning  and  nervous  wild  action, 
The  restlessness  following  gain, 
Does  it  pay  ? 

To  be  free  from  this  burden  and  worry, 

To  have  knowledge  without  fear  and  pain, 
To  be  peaceful,  far-seeing,  sweet  tempered, 

And  calm  in  the  presence  of  gain, 
We  must  know  the  pure  secret  of  Nature, 

Like  her  be  obedient  to  law, 
And  work  in  the  light  of  the  promise 
Of  blessed  results  Christ  foresaw. 
Then  each  day, 
And  alway, 
Life  will  pay. 


144 


AUXILIUM    AB    ALTO. 

The  poet  young  e'er  finds  a  tongue 

To  tell  the  joys  of  love. 
The  poet  bold  e'en  dares  behold 

The  mystery  above. 

The  poet  brave  e'er  loves  to  rave 
Of  wars  and  victories  gained. 

The  poet  sweet  e'en  dares  repeat 
The  angels'  songs  unfeigned. 

And  to  each  one  we  say,  "  Well  done, 

Go  on  and  do  thy  best." 
Though  still  we  feel  each  doth  but  seal 

A  part  of  life's  bequest. 

MS 


146  A UX ILIUM  AB   ALTO. 

But  yet  we  cry,  "  O  goddess  high, 
Must  thou  thy  wealth  so  share  ? 

America  feign  would  have  the  reign 
Of  one  thy  gift  to  bear. 

She  needs  such  one  to  help  her  shun 
The  dangerous  shoals  of  thought, 

Which  in  this  age  of  clown  and  sage 
Her  progress  gained  hath  wrought. 

She  needs  such  one  to  help  her  shun 
The  deeper  shoals  of  wrong, 

Which  in  these  days  of  doubt's  fond  lays 
Tempt  e'en  her  favored  strong. 

Oh,  send  such  one  to  say,  '  Well  done,' 
And  tell  in  truth  God's  plan, 

While  he  declares  as  well  as  shares 
The  fullest  life  of  man." 


LIMITATIONS. 

"  Would  that  my  acts  could  equal  the  noble 

acts  I've  told. 
Would  that  I  could  but  master  myself  as 

visions  bold !  " 

So  cried  a  famous  artist,  in  agony  of  soul, 
As  waves  of  great  temptation  before  him 
high  did  roll. 

"  Oh,  would  that  I  could  body  the  thoughts 

that  govern  me. 
Oh,  would  that  I  could  picture  the  visions 

I  foresee !  " 

So  cried  a  saintly  woman,   in  ecstasy  of 

pain, 
As  waves  of  sad  depression  rolled  on  her 

soul  to  gain. 


THE    MUSE    OF    HISTORY. 

Clio,  with  her  flickering  light 

And  book  of  valued  lore, 
Comes  down  the  ages,  dark  and  bright, 

Our  interest  to  implore. 

She  walks  with  glad  majestic  mien, 
Proud  of  her  knowledge  gained  ; 

Though  mourning  oft  at  having  seen 
Man's  life  so  dulled  and  pained. 

Her  face  with  lines  of  care  is  wrought, 
From  searching  mystery's  cause, 

And  dealing  with  the  hidden  thought 
Of  nature's  subtle  laws. 
148 


THE   MUSE    OF  HISTORY.         149 

Yet  still  she  blushes  with  new  life 

At  sight  of  actions  fine, 
And  pales  with  anguish  at  the  strife 

Of  evil's  dread  design. 

She  stops  to  sing  her  grandest  lays 

When,  in  creation's  heat, 
She  sees  evolved  a  higher  phase 

Of  life's  fruition  sweet. 

'Twas  thus  in  days  of  Genesis, 
When  man  came  forth  supreme. 

'Twas  thus  in  days  of  Nemesis, 
When  Love  did  dare  redeem. 

And  thus  'twill  be  in  future  days, 

When  out  from  spirit  laws, 
Shall  be  brought  forth  for  lasting  praise 

The  ever  great  First  Cause. 


150          THE  MUSE    OF  HISTORY. 

Oh,  gladly  know  this  wondrous  muse 
Who  walks  the  aisles  of  Time, 

And  not  so  thoughtlessly  refuse 
Her  book  of  lore  sublime  ; 

For  in  it  is  the  precious  force 

Of  spirit-life  divine, 
Which  even  through  a  winding  course 

Leads  in  to  Wisdom's  shrine. 


AN    IMPROMPTU. 

(Written  for  G.  H.    T.,  on  the  death  of  W.  S.    /'.,   March, 
i88q.) 

As  brothers  here  we've  shared  the  smiles, 
The  tears  of  boyhood's  hour, 

And  felt  the  sweet  companionship 
Of  manhood's  love  and  power. 

But  now  the  tie  is  snapped.      He's  fled 

Beyond  the  mortal  sight. 
The  grave  with  all  its  mystery 

Asserts  Death's  power  to  blight. 

Alas  !   Death  seems  the  cruel  thing 
In  this  bright  world  of  ours. 

The  bravest  soul  shrinks  from  its  hold 
Though  loving  faith  empowers. 
'51 


AN  IMPROMPTU. 


But,  hark  !     Is  't  not  his  voice  1  hear, 

With  comfort  as  of  yore  ? 
"  Dear  brother,  Death  is  but  more  Life, 

The  grave  is  heaven's  door." 


TO    MRS.    PARTINGTON. 

July  12,   1886. 

Another  birthday  here  ? 
It  hardly  seems  a  year 
Since  I  these  words  did  hear,— 
When  three  score  years  and  one  did  crown 

thee, — 

"  Not  till  I  am  an  octagon, 
Or,  worse  still,  a  centurion, 
Shall  I  be  old,  with  factories  gone 
All  idiomatic  and  forlorn." 

But  thou  art  still  a  ''membrane  "  dear 
Of  what  we  call  society's  cheer ; 
"Ordained  beforehand,  in  advance." 
('Twas  "foreordained,"  that  does  enhance,) 
'53 


154  TO  MRS.   PARTINGTON. 

To  hurl  not  "  epitaphs  "  which  sting, 
But  a  new  "  Erie's  "  dawn  to  bring, 
Of  "  fluid  "  thoughts  which  counteract 
The  "  bigamies  "  of  fate  and  fact. 

Alas  !  thy  crutch  of  many  years 
Still  hints  "romantic  "  pains  and  fears  ; 
A  "  Widow  Cruise's  oil  jug  "  say, 
To  keep  "  plumbago  "  still  at  bay  ! 

Its  helpful  mission  has  a  share 
In  "  Lines  of  Pleasant  Places  "  rare. 
And,  by  the  way,  not  crutch  alone 
Finds  in  that  book  its  value  shown. 

There  in  the  depths  of  friendship's  mines 
Are  seen  thy  tenderest,  purest  lines  ; 
Impromptus  born  at  love's  command 
To  deck  occasion's  wise  demand. 


TO   MRS.  PART7NGTON.  155 

One  finds  no  "  Sarah's  desert  "  there, 
No  "  reprehensible  "  despair  ; 
But  teeming  thoughts  on  Mounds  and  Press 
Poured  out  in  pure  unselfishness. 

This  brings  to  mind  thy  Knitting-  Work, 
Wherein  that  "  plaguey  Ike  "  does  lurk, 
And  other  books  with  humor  rife, 
Done  in  the  priming  of  thy  life. 

"  Contusion  of  ideas."     O  no  ; 
What  "  Angular  Saxon  "  would  say  so  ? 
"  Congestive  thoughts  then  so  inane 
They'd  decompose  the  soundest  brain." 

Yes,  there  it  is,  thy  humor  still, 
Not  seventy  years  and  two  can  kill. 
'Tis  free  from  all  "  harmonious  "  lore, 
A  "wholesome"  not  a  "ringtail"  store. 

V^^X 
'UNIVERSITY! 


LINES 

SENT  TO  THE  DINNER  GIVEN  IN  HONOR  OF  WALT 
WHITMAN'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY,  AT  CAM- 
DEN,  N.J.,  MAY  31,  1889,  AT  5  O'CLOCK  P.M. 

"  Splendor  of  ended  day  floating  and  filling 

me,"* 

Comes  to  my  mind  as  I  think  of  the  hour 
When  our  poet  and  friend  will  be  lovingly 

drinking 

The  mystical  cup  of  the  seventy  years' 
power. 

Were  I  the  man-of-war  bird  he  has  pictured 
Nothing  could  keep  me  from  flying  that 
way. 

*"Song  at  Sunset."—  W.  W. 
,56 


LINES.  157 

But,  though  absent  in  body,  there's  nothing 

can  hinder 

My  tasting  the  joys  of  that  festive  birth 
day  ; 

For  on  the  swift  wings  of  the  ending  day's 

splendor 
My  soul  will  glide  in  to  drink  deep  the 

cup's  wealth. 
Who  knows  but  the  poet's  keen  sense  of 

pure  friendship 

Will  feel,  'midst  the  joy,  what  I  drink  to 
his  health  ?  - 

Splendor  of  ended  day 

Be  but  the  door 
Opening  the  endless  way 
Life  evermore. 


aff 


SONNETS. 


Iff*,. 


*:#*. 


THE    KNOWN   GOD. 


(Suggested  by  Arlo  Bates1  sonnet,  "  The  Unknown  Goal,"  pub 
lished  in  the  BOSTON  COURIER  of  A^tgust  2/,  1887.} 

If  Paul  in  Athens'  street  left  nothing  more 
Than  what  he  found  when  deep  in  sacred 

thought, 
He  stood  and  marvelled  o'er  what  had 

been  wrought, — 
The     To    the    Unknown    God  of    heathen 

lore, — 
Then  were  he  only  one  on  thought's  wide 

shore 

To  lose  his  name  in  others.     But,  heaven- 
taught, 


1 62  THE   KNOWN  GOD. 

Undaunted,   and   in   words  experienced- 
fraught, 
Declared  he  God  as  known  forevermore. 

Paul's   words,   made   deep   and   strong  by 

martyred  life, 

Are  more  than  vision  deified.     They  are 

Love's  balm  to  permeate  true  mental  strife, 

And  bring  to  sin-sick  weary  souls  a  star 

Of  hope  born  of  temptation's  struggles  rife. 

To  the  Known   God.     Through  Paul  we 

dare  thus  far. 

August,  1887. 


TO  PHILLIPS    BROOKS. 

O  type  of  manhood,   strong,   serene,   and 

chaste, 

Attuned  to  law  of  man  as  well  as  God, 
We  hail  thee   as   a  guide,  who,  having 

trod 

With  Christ  the  spirit-fields,  in  eager  haste 

Makes  glad  return  to  give  us  blessed  taste 

Of  fruit  there  found.     Through  thee  our 

feet  are  shod 
With   gospel-peace,    while    thy   imperial 

rod 

Becomes  our  need  in  times  of  drought  or 
waste. 

How  can  we   thank  thee  for  thy  helpful 
cheer, 

163 


164  TO   PHILLIPS  BROOKS. 

O  master-spirit  of  the  priests  of  earth  ? 
By  daily  doing  penance  without  fear, 

Or  resting  satisfied  in  deeds  of  worth  ? 
O  no  !      'Tis  when  we  breathe  love's  at 
mosphere, 

And  live  like  thee  the  life  of  heavenly 
birth. 

Boston,  1890. 


AT    THE    "PORTER    MANSE.' 


{That  part  of  the  Porter  Manse  containing  the  room  referred 
to  was  built  early  in  the  last  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  It  was  the  house  which  Wenham  (the  first  dis 
tinct  township  set  off  —  in  1639  —  from  Salem)  gave  to 
the  second  pastor  of  its  church,  Rev.  Antipas  Newman, 
who  married,  while  living  there,  Governor  Winthrop's 
daughter.  It  was  bought  by  John  Porter  in  1703,  and 
has  remained  in  his  family  name  without  alienation  to 
this  day.] 


Before  a  smouldering  fire  at  twilight  hour 
I  muse  alone.     The  ancient  room,  low- 
beamed, 
Holds  for   my   ear   thoughts   voiced    by 

forms  that  teemed 

Two  hundred  years  ago  with  life  and  power. 
I   breathe  the  essence  of  sweet  joys  that 
flower 

165 


1 66      AT   THE  "PORTER  MANSE." 

In  light  of  home ;   while  life   that  only 
seemed 

On  history's  page  becomes  the  real,  re 
deemed 

From  all  the  chaff  that  time  fails  not  to 
shower. 

Ah,  such  old  places,  holding  through  the 

years 

Continuous  life  of  man's  activity, 
Reveal  a  wealth  beyond  that  which  appears 

In  modern  homes  built  e'er  so  lovingly. 
Imbued   so    long  with    human   hopes   and 

fears, 
Have  they  not  claim  to  personality  ? 


OUR    LADY    OF    THE    MANSE. 

Of  all  those  born  into  the  name  to  share 

The    charming    freedom    of    the    Porter 
Manse, 

None  were  more  worthy  of  inheritance 
Than  she  who  now  presides  as  lady  there. 
Her  gracious  calm  makes  hospitality  wear 

A  beauteous  crown  of  peace.     Kind  tol 
erance 

And  wide-embracing  sympathy  enhance 
Her  power  to  please  and  lighten  daily  care. 

'Tis   only  such  rare  souls  who  pierce  the 

truth 

Of  home-life   secrets,   and   through  tact 
and  grace, 

167 


1 68      OUR    LADY  OF  THE   MANSE. 

Make    growing    years    reflect    the    joys   of 

youth. 
They  lose  not  hope,  though  sorrow  leave 

a  trace 

In  all  their  joy.     Such  cannot  fail,  forsooth, 
Of  making  home  a  loved  abiding  place. 


TO    B.    P.    SHILLABER. 

July  12,  1888. 

When  lingering  Day  at  last  recedes  from 

sight, 
And  Night  comes  slowly  forth  to  fill  her 

place, 

Preceded  by  a  twilight-hour's  loved  face 
Reflecting  glorious  rays  of  sunset  light, 
'Tis  then  my  thoughts  go  wandering  with 

delight 

Through  oft-frequented  avenues  of  space 
To  those  dear  souls  —  the  dearest  of  the 

race  — 

Who've  dwelt  with  me  on  friendship's  purest 
height. 

169 


17°  TO   B.   P,  SHILLABER. 

From  this  old  mountain-top  1  come  to  you, 
My  large  souled  trusted  friend  of  many 

a  year, 

With  birthday  greetings  of  the  roseate  hue 

Left  by  a  perfect  Day  just  lingering  here. 

Oh,    may    life's   twilight   hold   a   peace   as 

true, 

And  be  as   filled   with   hope   of  dawn's 
sweet  cheer ! 

Mount  Wachusett,  Mass, 


TO    OUR 


Sweet  sister,  thoughtful  ever  of  our  need, 

Forgetting  self,  if  only  we  be  served, 

How  oft  thy  loving  sympathy  has  nerved 

Our  fainting  hearts  to  kinder,  nobler  deed, 

Or  brought  to  being  thoughts  that  inter 

cede 
For   others'    progress.       We,    all    unde 

served, 
Cannot    forget    that    life    to    ends    thus 

curved 

Made   time   for   us  to   plant  our   own   pet 
seed. 

The   world   owes   much   to   many   a   sister 
dear, 

171 


17 2  TO    OUR   MARY. 

Who,  banishing  with   tears  in  midnight 

hour 
A  fond  desire  for  larger,  happier  sphere, 

Strives  faithfully  in  lowly  life  to  shower 
Rich  daily  blessings.     Such  may  know  e'en 

here 

A    Christ-like    joy   unknown    to   worldly 
power. 

Chelsea,  Mass.,  1887. 


A    BIRTHDAY   REMEMBRANCE. 

TO    F.  D.  L. 

September    26. 

Time  brings  to  thee  from  out  his  storehouse 

old 

Another  year,  which  graciously  awaits 
Thy  fair  soul's  bidding,  as  it  estimates 
The  wealth  the  parting  year  has  left  un 
told. 
Clothed    in    chameleon    garments,    which 

unfold 
The   fresh    new    days    thine    eye    ne'er 

underrates, 
It   brings  continued    hope   of   life    that 

dates 
Man's  finest  being.    Thou  its  secrets  hold  ! 


174-4   BJR  THDA  Y  REMEMBRA  NCE. 

Are    not    such   birthdays    restful    stepping 

stones, 

To  aid  the  growing  soul  pick  out  the  way 

To  life  eternal  ?    Not  earth's  bitterest  moans 

Or  wildest  joys  can  man's  true  progress 

stay, 

If,  in  these  pauses,  he  but  hear  the  tones 
Of  immortality's  soothing,  deathless  lay. 

1887. 


JOSEF    HOFMANN. 

{After  hearing  him  play  at  Boston  Music  Hall  in  1888.) 

O  marvellous  child,  a  temple  where  in  ease 
Expectant  Genius  dwells,  while  lingering 

here 

On  earth  to  fit  us  for  the  heavenly  sphere, 
Dost  feel  awe-struck  to  know  thou  hast  the 

keys 

To  new  and  wondrous  unheard  harmonies  ? 

O  favored  boy,  marked  out  to  be  the  peer 

Of  those  who  in  all  ages  God's  voice  hear, 

Hushed  are  our  souls  before  what  thy  soul 

sees  ! 

Guard  tenderly,  O  earth,  O  sky,  O  fates, 
This   precious    earthly   temple    of    Art's 
shrine  ! 

'75 


1 7  6  JOSEF  HOFMANN. 

May  chilling  poverty,  or  sin  that  dates 
Soul  loss,  ne'er  hinder  Genius'  wise  de 
sign 

To  have  full  sway  —  as  she  anticipates  — 
In  working  out,  in  time,  her  laws  divine. 


I. 

AFTER    THE    DENIAL. 

Jo/in  21 :  /5-/<?. 

When  fast  was  broken  on  Tiberias'  shore, 
The  risen  Lord,  still  anxious  that  his  own 
Should  know  love's  secret  as  to  him  'twas 

known, 
Thrice   asked  of  Peter,   "  Lovest  thou  me 

more 
Than  these  ? "     The  third  time  Peter's  heart 

was  sore. 
Must  even  love  divine  have  doubt's  sad 

tone  ? 
"Thou  knowest,  Lord,  I  love  thee,"  was 

his  moan. 

Then,  "  Feed  my  sheep,"   Christ  answered 
as  before. 

177 


178  AFTER    THE   DENIAL. 

Still  in  these  days   the  risen   Lord  bends 

o'er 
The   shores  of  time,  and  longs  for  human 

love  ; 

The  love  that  hears  his  voice,  awake,  asleep, 
And  makes  response  as  Peter  did  of  yore. 
"  Lovest  thou  me  ? "     O  Christ,  from  heights 

above, 
Thou  knowest  that  we  love  thee.     "  Feed 

my  sheep." 


II. 

GETHSEMANE. 
Matthew  26 : 36-46. 

"  Could  ye  not  watch  with  me  one  hour  ?  " 

O  heart 
Of  Christ,  still  longing  in  the  bitterest 

hour 

For  human  sympathy  and  love  to  shower 
A   needed   strength   beyond   words  to   im 
part  ! 
Humanity  is  richer  for  this  art 

Of  seeing  in  poor  finite  man  a  power  — 
Before    which    even    ministering    angels 

cower  — 

To  know  all  truth,  e'en  dread  Gethsemane's 
smart. 

179 


1 8  o  GE  THSEMA  NE. 

Alas  !    the  power  to  know  will    bring  the 

pain. 
But  through  the  pain  of  wisdom's  true 

insight 
Is    Christ's    own    perfect   sympathy    made 

plain. 
Possessed  of  this,  we  see  in   tenderest 

light 

His  sorrowing  heart  in  failing  to  obtain 
The  longed-for  love  in  hour  of  darkest 
night. 


ON    LAKE    MEMPHREMAGOG. 

By  old   Owl's  Head   on  Memphremagog's 

side, 
In    hammock-nook   'midst    scenery  wild 

and  bold, 

The  spirit  of  the  waters,  as  of  old, 

Broods  o'er  my  soul,  its  secrets  to  confide, 

It  whispers  of  the  anguish,  joy,  and  pride, 

The  heart  of  man  has  on  its  bosom  told  ; 

And  hails  as  conqueror  Him  who  once 

did  hold 

Its  heart  in  peace  when  tempest-tossed  and 
tried. 

Loved  spirit  of  the  waters,  we  too  hail 
The  power  of  Him  who  walked  the  holy 
sea 

iSi 


1 82      ON  LAKE   MEMPHREMAGOG. 

Of  Galilee.     Capacity  to  fail 

Were  harder  to  believe  than  victory. 
May  He  who  conquered  wildest  Nature's 

heart 
His  infinite  power  and  rest  to  us  impart  1 

August,  1891. 


LUKE    23  :   24. 

From  holy  depths  he  to  the  Father  prayed, 
"  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 

they  do." 
His    heart,    pierced    then    with    anguish 

through  and  through, 
Cried    out    "  'Tis    finished,"    as    he   death 

obeyed. 
In  bitterest  wrong  this  marvellous  soul  was 

weighed 
With  tenderest  love  and  longing  towards 

those  who, 
Through  ignorance  of  what  they  might 

be  too, 

Were  now  the  slaves  of  evil  passion's  raid. 
'83 


l84  LUKE  23:    24. 

"  They  know  not  what  they  do."     O  blessed 

sight 

Into  the  heart  of  sin's  great  mystery. 
Forgiveness  here  is  shown  in  sweetest  light, 

Clothed  in  her  garment  of  sincerity. 
Blest  are  those  souls  who  reach  this  precious 

height ; 
They  know  the  secret  of  Christ's  victory. 


TO    THE    MEMBERS   OF   MY   HOME 
CLUB.* 

While  dwelling  in  sweet  wisdom's  fruitful 

ways, 

In  company  with  poets  grand  and  good 
Who  met  our  human  nature's  every  mood, 
What  life  was  ours,  beyond  our  words  to 

praise  ! 
In  seeking  for  the  secret  of  the  lays 

Which  clothed  in  art  pure|  Nature's  daily 

food, 

Or  brought  to  light  a  Christian  brotherhood, 
Did  we  not  garner  thoughts  for  future 
days  ? 

*  For  an  account  of  this  Home  Club,  see  the  Boston  Liter 
ary  World,  of  July  9,  1887,  and  June  9,  18X8  ;  also,  Lend  a 
Hand,  for  September,  1889. 


.85 


1 86          TO    THE    MEMBERS,   ETC. 

'Tis  one  of  wisdom's  joys,  while  lingering 

here 
To  plant  her  seeds  of  righteousness  and 

peace, 

To  give  a  sweet  companionship  and  cheer 
To  those  who  seek  from  her  their  soul's 

increase. 

This,  friends,  we've  felt  in  our  Club  atmo 
sphere. 

May   its   sweet   memory    linger    till    life 
cease  ! 

Chelsea,  Mass.,  1888. 


FOR  MY  LITTLE   NEPHEWS 
AND   NIECES. 


A    MAMMA'S    LULLABY. 

Dream  of  loveliest  beauty  in  thine  hour  of 

sleep, 

Harold,  baby  boy. 
Lullaby,  lullaby,  lullaby. 
Catch  the  sweetest  glimpses  of  the  heavenly 

bliss, 
While  the  holy  angels  bless   thee  with   a 

kiss. 

Lullaby,  lullaby. 
So  shall  mamma  feel  a  breath 

Of  celestial  power, 
To  beautify  the  ministry, 
Of  baby's  waking  hour. 
Lullaby,  lullaby,  lullaby, 
Harold,  baby  boy. 
Lullaby,  lullaby. 


189 


WARREN'S    SONG. 

How  I  love  you,  baby  dear, 
Sister  Rosamond ! 
I  must  kiss  you, 
I  must  hug  you, 
I  must  be  your  little  beau, 
To  protect  you 
Or  to  rescue 

From  the  faults  of  friend  or  foe. 
I  must  grow  more  wise  and  graceful 

Every  way, 
That  I  may  be  true  and  helpful 

For  the  day 

When,  as  lovely  fair  young  woman, 
You  will  need  my  stay. 
Darling  Rosebud, 
190 


WARREN'S  SONG.  191 

How  I  love  you, 
How  I  love  you,  sister  dear  ! 
Oh,  I  will  be  good  and  pure, 
Striving  always  to  endure 
What  will  make  me  honest,  kind, 
Generous,  manly,  strong  in  mind, 
Worthy  of  my  Rosebud. 

Darling  Rosebud, 

Sweetest  Rosebud, 
How  I  love  you,  sister  dear  ! 


BABY    MILDRED. 

Darling    baby     Mildred,    playing    on    the 
floor  — 

I  see! 

Creeping  here  and  creeping  there, 
Into  mischief  everywhere, 
Mamma's  little  pet  and  care  — 
I  see  ! 

Fearless    baby    Mildred,    on    her    rocking 
horse  — 

I  see! 

Never  slipping  from  her  place, 

Joyous  laughter  keeping  pace 

With  a  motion  full  of  grace  — 

I  see! 

192 


BABY  MILDRED.  193 

Thoughtful  baby  Mildred,  papa's  pet  and 
pride  — 

I  know ! 

Lighting  up  the  passing  days 
With  such  happy,  winsome  ways, 
Joy  of  household  life  that  pays  — 
I  know ! 

Tired  baby  Mildred,  lovely  eyes  all  closed — 

Sleep  on  ! 

Waking,  heaven  will  be  more  near 
For  the  angels'  presence  here, 
Whispering  secrets  in  her  ear  — 
Sleep  on  !     Sleep  on  ! 


ROSAMOND    AND    MILDRED. 

Rosamond    and    Mildred,    playing   on   the 
floor  — 

I  see! 

Laughing  blue  eyes,  dimpled  face, 
Laughing  brown  eyes,  ways  of  grace, 
Chubby  hands  that  interlace  — 
I  see! 

Rosamond    and    Mildred,    trying    hard    to 
walk  — 

I  see! 

Clinging  now  to  mamma's  dress, 
Trembling  in  new  happiness, 
Then  at  last  a  sweet  success  — 
I  see  ! 
194 


ROSAMOND   AND   MILDRED.      195 

Rosamond    and    Mildred,  born    the   same 
glad  year  — 

I  know  ! 

Cousins  ;  each  in  her  own  way 
Growing  wiser  every  day, 
Full  of  promise  as  of  play  — 
I  know ! 

Rosamond    and    Mildred,    parting    to    go 
home  — 

Good-bye  ! 

Each  a  little  picture  fair, 
Carrying  blessing  everywhere. 
Grateful  are  we  for  our  share  — 
Good-bye  !     Good-bye  ! 


'CHILLA. 

Chinchilla  ?     Come,  'Chilla  !  — 
Ah,  here  she  comes  bounding, 
So  quickly  responding, 
Oh,  who  could  but  love  her  ! 
Her  fur  like  chinchilla  — 
Her  movements  all  grace  — 
Such  a  wise  little  face  — 
What  kitty  is  like  her  ? 
Oh,  who  could  but  love  her, 
Our  dear  pretty  'Chilla  ! 


.96 


CHILDISH    FANCIES. 

(A    FACT.) 

My  little  nephew,  four  years  old, 
A  sweet-faced,  blue-eyed  boy, 

Was  one  day  playing  by  my  side 
With  this  and  that  pet  toy, 

When  all  at  once  he  said  to  me,— 

As,  laying  down  my  book, 
I  paused  a  while  to  watch  with  joy 

His  bright,  expressive  look, — 

"  If  Mac  and  I  should  plant  today 
Some  paper  in  the  ground, 

Say,  would  it  grow  to  be  a  book 

Like  yours,  with  leaves  all  bound.?  " 


198  CHILDISH  FANCIES. 

These  were  the  same  two  little  boys 
Whose  nurse  searched  far  and  wide 

For  little  sister's  rubber  shoes  ; 
"  Where  can  they  be  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  know,"  replied  Mac,  eagerly, 
"  We  planted  them  last  night, 

To  see  if  they  would  bigger  grow 
To  fit  our  feet  all  right." 

Dear  little  boys  !     These  fancies  hint 

Of  future  questions  deep, 
When  evolution's  grand  idea 

Shall  o'er  their  vision  sweep. 

God  grant  that  when  these  come  to  them, 
As  at  Truth's  shrine  they  bow, 

A  childlike  faith  and  earnestness 
May  fill  them  then  as  now. 


WHAT  LITTLE  BERTRAM    DID. 

(A    FACT  ) 

Our  little  Bertram,  six  years  old, 
Sat  on  his  grandpa's  knee, 

Enjoying  to  the  full  the  love 
That  grandpa  gave  so  free, 

When,  looking  up  bewitchingly," 
He  said, —  the  little  teaze, — 

"  Will  grandpa  give  me  just  one  cent 
To  buy  some  candy,  please  ?  " 

Who  could  resist  such  loveliness  ? 

This  grandpa  could  not,  sure. 
So  with  a  kiss  he  gave  the  cent  — 

Ah,  how  such  things  allure  ! 
199 


200    WHA  T  LITTLE  BERTRAM  DfD. 

No  sooner  was  the  cent  in  hand, 
Than  off  the  fair  boy  ran 

To  buy  his  candy,  "  'lasses  kind," 
Or  little  "candy-man." 

Now  on  his  way,  in  scanning  well 

A  window  full  of  toys, 
He  spied  a  ring  with  big  red  stone, 

O'erlooked  by  other  boys. 

i 

All  th6ught  of  candy  was  forgot. 

He'd  buy  that  ring  so  fine 
For  his  new  sister,  Rosamond  — 

Oh,  how  his  eyes  did  shine  ! 

How  could  he  stop  to  calculate 
The  size  of  such  a  thing ; 

His  only  care  was  for  the  price  — 
Would  one  cent  buy  the  ring  ? 


WHAT  LITTLE  BERTRAM  DID.   2OI 

Ah  yes,  it  would.     The  ring  was  bought ; 

And  never  girl  or  boy 
Went   tripping    homeward    through    the 
streets 

With  greater  wealth  or  joy. 


"DEAR    LITTLE    MAC."* 

(A    FACT.) 

When   nearly   eight   years   old,    dear    little 

Mac 
Was  called  from  out  his  happy  home-life 

here 

To  that  blest  sphere 
Beyond  earth's  dearest  power  to  call  him 

back. 

"  His  questions  wise  will  now  sure  answer 

find," 
Said  one  who  'd  loved  to  watch  his  eager 

face, 
In  happy  chase 

*  MacLaurin  Cooke  Gould,  died  in   Maplewood,  .Mass.,  No 
vember  8,  1X87. 


-DEAR   LITTLE   MAC."  203 

Of  many  a  thought  which  flitted  through 
his  mind. 

"  Yes,  he   knows  more  than  we,"  another 

said, 
"  Instead  of  guiding  him,  he'll  be  our  guide 

To  where  abide 
The  things  we  need  most  to  be  comforted." 

While    thus    the   older  ones  their  comfort 

sought, 
Two  of   the   children   paused   in   midst  of 

play, 

To  have  their  say 
Concerning  this  great  mystery  Death  had 

brought. 

"  Dear   little   Mac,"    said    Miriam,   with    a 
sigh, 


204  "DEAR   LITTLE   MAC" 

"  He's  gone  way  up  to  heaven  where  angels 

are, 

Way  up  so  far 
That  we  can't  ever  see  him  till  we  die." 

"  He's  not  up  there,"  said  Bertram.     "  He 

can't  be. 
I    saw    them    put    him    in    the    cold    dark 

ground, 

And  I  went  round 
And  threw  some  flowers  in  for  him  to  see." 

"  He  isn't  there,"  replied  the  four-year  old, 
"  He's   up   in   heaven.      My   mamma   told 

me  so. 

He  is,  I  know. 
He  isn't  in  the  ground  all  dark  and  cold." 

A  moment  Bertram  sat  absorbed  in  thought. 
While  Miriam  felt  the  joy  of  victory. 


"DEAR  LITTLE   MAC."  205 

Then  suddenly 
The  lovely  six-year-old  this  idea  caught : 

"  I    tell    you   what,    Mac's   body 's    in  the 

ground ; 
His  head,  his  feet,  and  every  other  part, 

But  just  his  heart  — 
And  that's  gone  up  to  heaven,  and  angels 

found." 

The   child   thus   solved   the   thought   that 

troubled  so. 
And  as  I  overheard  this  earnest  talk,— 

Which  might  some  shock, — 
I  wondered  if  we  could  more  wisdom  show. 

As  each  seemed  satisfied,  their  play  went 

on. 
But  Bertram's  thought  sank  deep  in  sister's 

mind, 


2o6  "DEAR   LITTLE   MAC." 

And  left  behind 

The  wonder  how  dear  Mac  to  heaven  had 
gone. 

At  last,  when  ready  for  their  sweet  "  Good 

Night," 
She  softly  said,  "  It  can't  be  very  dark, 

Not  very  dark 
For  Mac.  I  know,  'cause  God  will  make  it 

light." 

Oh,    lovely   faith    of    childhood's    trusting 

days, 
Sent  fresh  from  heaven  to  be  our  loving 

guide, 

When  sadly  tried 
By  doubt  or  sorrow's  strange,  mysterious 

ways. 


WILLARD  AND   FLORENCE  ON 
MOUNT    WACHUSETT. 

July,  1888. 

Happy  little  girl  and  boy, 

Dancing  hand  in  hand 
Over  hill  and  valley  land, 

Filled  with  summer  joy ; 

Climbing  up  the  steep  path  side 

To  Wachusett's  top, 
With  that  graceful  skip  and  hop 

Born  where  fairies  hide  ; 

Seeing  Holyoke  from  the  height, 

Old  Monadnock  clear, 
While  Washacum  twin-lakes  near 

Sparkle  in  sun-light  ; 
207 


2o8        WILLARD   AND   FLORENCE. 

Tripping  down  the  mountain-road 

Back  to  cottage  home, 
Only  pausing  there  to  roam 

Where  laurel  finds  abode  ; 

Jumping  on  the  new-mown  hay, 

Sitting  under  trees, 
Feeling  every  mountain  breeze, 

Hearing  birds'  sweet  lay  ; 

Lying  on  the  mossy  stone 

By  the  brook's  cascade, 
Listening  'neath  the  sylvan  shade 

To  its  rippling  tone  ; 

Down  at  pretty  Echo  Lake, 

Plucking  maiden-hair, 
Gathering  glistening  "sundew"  there 

For  "  dear  mamma's  sake  "  ; 


WILLAKD   AND   FLORENCE.       209 

Picking  in  the  pastures  near 

Berries  red  and  blue  ; 
Spying  where  the  mayflowers  grew 

Earlier  in  the  year  ; 

Watching  for  the  sun  to  rise. 

Following  sunset-cloud. 
Singing  low  and  singing  loud 

While  the  swift  day  flies  ; 

Waiting  for  the  "Tally-Ho," 

With  its  looked-for  mails, 
Hearing  strangers  tell  their  tales 

As  they  come  and  go ; 

Happy  little  girl  and  boy, 

Dancing  hand  in  hand 
Over  hill  and  valley  land, 

Filled  with  summer  joy. 


A    LITTLE    BRAZILIAN. 

(A     FACT.) 

'Twas  in  Brazil  last  Christmas  day, 

While  at  a  family  feast, 
A  little  girl  of  five  years  old 

The  merriment  increased, 

By  crying  out, — as  glasses  held 
The  ice  she  ne'er  had  seen, — 

"  Oh  see  !  what  pretty  little  stones. 
What  for  ?     Where  have  they  been  ?  " 

"  Here,  give  her  one,"  the  host  exclaimed. 
Pleased  with  her  childish  glee. 

"  'Twill  show  her  as  no  words  could  show 
What  ice  is,  and  must  be." 

210 


A    LITTLE   BRAZILIAN.  211 

She  grasped  the  "white  stone  "  in  her  hand, 

All  watching  eagerly, 
When  suddenly  she  let  it  fall, 

And  cried,  "  It's  burning  me." 

But,  anxious  still  to  see  it  more, 

She  asked  a  servant  near 
To  hand  it  in  a  napkin  wrapped  — 

Then  there  would  be  no  fear. 

Again  the  ice  was  in  her  hand, 

Her  plaything  for  the  day, 
When  all  at  once  she  cried  aloud, 

"The  stone  is  running  away." 

A  glass  of  water  now  was  used. 
Sure  that  would  keep  it  hers.          • 

But  no  !  with  all  her  loving  watch 
The  same  result  occurs. 


212  A    LITTLE   BRAZILIAN. 

The  plaything  gone,  at  evening  hour 

She  sat  on  uncle's  knee. 
•4Who  makes  those  white   stones,   you  or 
God  ? " 

She  asked,  inquiringly. 

"  In  Miss  Brown's  land  [a  Boston  friend] 
God  makes  them,"  answered  he. 

"  But  in  Brazil  a  factory-man 
Makes  them  for  you  and  me." 

A  moment's  pause.    Then  said  the  child, — 
Heaven's  blessing  on  her  fall. — 

"  Why  doesn't  God  get  from  Brazil 
A  man  to  make  them  all  ? " 


THE    LITTLE    DOUBTER. 

"  Mamma,  where  is  the  sun  to-day, 
While  all  this  rain  comes  down  ?  " 

Ah,  little  girl 

Of  flaxen  curl, 
Who  has  not  asked  before 
This  question  o'er  and  o'er  ? 

"  Behind  the  clouds  so  thick  and  black 

The  sun  is  shining  still," 
The  mother  quickly  answered  back, 

Her  child  with  faith  to  fill. 

The  child  looked  up  in  strange  surprise. 

In  doubt  almost  a  pain, 
Then  turned  again  her  wistful  eyes 

To  watch  the  pouring  rain. 
213 


214  THE   LITTLE   DOUBTER. 

"  I  don't  believe  'tis  shining  still," 
She  muttered  to  herself. 

Ah,  little  girl 

Of  flaxen  curl, 

Why  doubt  e'en  mother's  word. 
Because  of  feelings  stirred  ? 

"  I  won't  believe  it  till  I  see 

The  sun  behind  that  cloud," 
She  still  went-on,  defiantly, 

To  say  in  accents  loud. 

Now,  while  she  gazed  as  if  to  see 
The  truth  made  known  by  sight, 

Behold  the  cloud  did  suddenly 
Become  imbued  with  light. 

"  There,  there,  mamma,  the  sun,  the  sun  ! 
The  little  doubter  cried. 


THE  LITTLE   DOUBTER.          215 

And,  full  of  joy  at  victory  won, 
She  danced  with  childish  pride. 


The  mother  watched  with  tearful  eyes 

Her  child's  transparent  joy, 
But  dared  not  quench  the  glad  surprise, 

Or  victory's  power  destroy. 

"  Perhaps  she'll  need  this  proof,"  she  sighed, 
"  Of  hidden  things  made  plain. 

When  in  the  depths  of  life  she's  tried, 
And  all  fond  hopes  are  slain." 

While  thus  she  mused,  as  mothers  will, 

The  little  daughter  fair 
Rushed  to  her  arms,  all  smiling  still, 

And  said,  while  nestling  there. 


216  THE   LITTLE   DOUBTER. 

"  Behind  the  clouds  the  sun  does  shine, 
E'en  while  the  rain  comes  down." 

Ah,  little  girl 

Of  flaxen  curl, 
This  wisdom  is  indeed 
For  future  hours  of  need. 


OUR    KITTY'S   TRICK.* 

I  know  that  all  the  boys  and  girls 

Would  be  so  glad  to  see 
Our  kitty  do  the  little  trick 

She  often  does  for  me. 

When  asked,  "  O  kitty,  where's  the  ball  ?  " 

She  to  my  shoulder  leaps, 
And  looks  directly  to  the  shelf, 

Where  from  a  box  it  peeps. 

She  will  not  cease  to  look  and  beg, 

Until  I  find  the  place 
Where  she  can  take  between  her  teeth 

The  ball  with  easy  grace. 


*  These  verses,  true  in  every  detail,  are  only  preserved  in 
remembrance  of  a  pet  cat  of  our  family  for  many  years. 

217 


218  OUR   KITTY'S    TRICK. 

Then  quickly  to  the  floor  she  jumps; 

When,  dropping  first  the  ball, 
She  runs  behind  the  open  door 

That  leads  into  the  hall. 

She  waits,  with  only  head  in  sight, 
The  ball  to  see  me  throw ; 

Then  after  it  she  scampers  well 
Some  forty  feet  or  so. 

She  never  fails  to  bring  it  back ; 

Then  lifts  with  wondrous  grace 
Her  velvet  paw  to  take  the  ball 

From  out  its  hiding  place. 

This  done,  she  nestles  by  my  side, 
And  purrs  while  I  caress, 

Unconscious  of  the  trick  she's  done, 
Since  three  months  old  or  less. 


OUR   KITTY'S    TRICK.  219 

She  thus  will  lie  in  calm  repose 

So  long  as  I  am  still ; 
But  if  I  move  to  touch  the  ball, 

Then  all  her  nerves  will  thrill, 

Her  eyes  will  shine,  she'll  quickly  find 

Her  place  behind  the  door, 
And  wait  again  to  see  the  ball 

Roll  on  the  long  hall  floor. 

Ah,  kitty  dear,  who  told  you  how 
To  join  thought,  act,  and  sight  ? 

Must  not  we  think  that  in  you  dwells 
The  germ  of  mental  light, 

The  germ  that  makes  you  kin  to  us 

In  kind  though  not  degree, 
But  which  was  quickened  by  His  touch 

For  our  supremacy  ? 


A    MESSAGE. 

A  mountain  hides  within  itself 
This  message  grand  and  true, 

Which  at  my  bidding  came  to-day 
For  me  to  give  to  you : 

"  Drink  deep  of  Nature's  sweetest  life, 

While  learning  how  to  wait. 
Stand  strong  against  the  tempest's  strife, 

Not  questioning  the  fate. 
Then  shalt  thou  live  above  the  din 

Of  petty  things  below, 
Absorbing  depths  of  life  within, 

The  future  to  o'erflow." 

At  the  foot  of  Mount  Holyoke. 


THIS  BOOK.  IS  DUB  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


